The Last Hurrah
by Ellemgram
Summary: It's been two years since Blutarch Mann's death and Redmond Mann's team of mercenaries disbanded. But when they're called together for one last battle, will the RED team discover they've been out of the killing business too long?
1. Chapter 1

"Ivan! If those rolls aren't out here in fifteen seconds, you'll be standing in the unemployment line!"

Ivan Kozlov heaved a steaming tray of rolls onto the stainless steel counter and gritted his teeth. The smell of the morning's first fresh-baked pastries wafted through the bakery's back room, sending the enormous man's stomach into a gurgling frenzy.

"Yes, Boss-Lady," he said, running a ham-sized fist over his forehead. "Rolls be out soon."

The butter-topped rolls shone in the bright light that filtered through the kitchen's high windows. With speed borne from years of practice – and sandvich-making – Ivan separated the bread on the tray into square-shaped bundles of four, staunchly ignoring the stubborn growls coming from his midsection.

"Ivan!"

"Rolls are here!" Holding the tray over his head, Ivan shouldered the kitchen's swinging door open and squeezed himself between the bakery's front counter and display racks. He stretched himself over the bent form of boss-lady – or Susan Smith to those with a full command of English – and slid the tray onto the top shelf.

"It's about time, Ivan," Susan's blond hair spilled onto the counter as she leaned to finish writing a receipt. "I can't run a business if my baker can't get his act together."

Ivan didn't reply. After two years of working for Susan, he knew better than to try and explain himself. It didn't matter that he lived an hour from work and the train tended to run late. And it definitely didn't matter that the oven timer sounded distinctly like the buzzer that rang several times a day at his old job.

But he wouldn't think about his old job. Remembering his work for Redmond Mann usually meant retreating into a glazed-over stupor for at least half an hour, and he couldn't afford to have Susan dock his pay again. Money bought sandviches and half-hour sessions with the punching bags at the local fitness club. Without food and the promise of sinking his fists into a sand-filled bag, Ivan was as good as dead.

"I finish cakes now." Ivan twisted around Susan and disappeared into the kitchen. Too much time around his boss made him nervous, and more than once that had led to a nicked palm or a bloody finger. The baker's assistant was no stranger to injuries – he'd disemboweled men with improvised bear claws, after all – but in Susan's kitchen, hygiene reigned supreme.

"Stupid woman," he muttered under his breath as he yanked the refrigerator door open, revealing row after row of chilled sheet cakes. "I miss Doctor. Doctor never asked for -" he made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat "-pretty pink icing roses."

In the main room, Susan shook her head and sighed. She'd hired Ivan on a whim, partially because her bakery was in the shady part of town and she liked the idea of an assistant who looked like he could break a man in half with his bare hands. But it was becoming more and more apparent that she wouldn't be able to afford to keep him, especially if profits stayed as low as they'd been the last few months. In the last week, she'd sent more bread home with Ivan than she'd sold. At least she knew it wasn't wasted – what Ivan lacked in common sense, he more than made up in appetite.

A bell chimed at the front door. Susan glanced up, frowning at the man who had just entered her store.

"How ya goin', miss?"

"Er… fine, thanks." Susan couldn't help but stare. The tall, thin man in front of her looked like he'd crawled right out of a Crocodile Dundee remake, from the alligator-skin boots to the tooth-rimmed hat on his head. She could see her face, complete with its suspicious expression, in the reflection of the stranger's aviator sunglasses.

"Name's Lawrence Mundy. I'm lookin' for a man by the name of Ivan." He rubbed at a thin scar that started at his cheekbone and disappeared into his dark sideburns. "I, er, I never caught his last name. Big man, heavy accent. Kind of hard to miss."

Susan raised her eyebrows. She didn't know much about Ivan's past – any questions as to what he'd done before coming to her bakery were always met with a grunt and a stony stare – but the man in front of her seemed… cold. Like a predator. She twisted a chunk of her hair between her hands. "Yes, there is an Ivan who works here. Are you two… friends?"

A wide smile broke across the man's face. "Old colleagues, really. I'm hopin' to catch up, see how he's been since the war- er, since the factory closed down. Been looking for him for about six weeks now."

The knot in Susan's stomach loosened just enough for her to breathe. "Wonderful. He's in the back. I'll go get him."

Ivan leaned over the counter, eyes fixed on the cake in front of him and a half-full icing bag in his hands. With a squeal, the kitchen door swung open, jostling him forward a step. The sudden movement sent pale pink icing spurting across the cake's white-frosted surface. Ivan groaned, staring helplessly at the ruined cake in front of him.

"So sorry, boss-lady," Ivan stammered. "Will fix, or will buy. Or-"

"No, it's alright." Susan picked up the burst icing bag by its corner and tossed it in the nearby trash can. "That was my fault. There's someone out front for you. He said his name is Lawrence Mundy."

For a moment, confusion swam across Ivan's eyes, and Susan wondered if the man waiting in the shop had been mistaken. Ivan frowned and rested his flour-covered arms against the countertop.

"He said he used to work with you. He's tall, skinny… Australian accent."

Recognition dawned on Ivan's face, followed by a slow, wide grin. "Sniper!" The counter groaned beneath his weight as he leaned forward. "Oh. I know this Mundy man."

He started to laugh, the noise loud in the close confines of the bakery kitchen. Susan resisted the urge to slink backward – something about Ivan's good moods always made her very, very nervous. Had he just said the person waiting in the next room was a sniper? "He's, uh, he's waiting in the store. If you want to go talk to him."

"Yes!" Ivan jerked upright and slammed his fists down on the counter, rattling the silverware in the cabinet beneath it. "I take early lunch, yes?"

Susan swallowed. "Go right ahead. Just be back by three. We're expecting a flour delivery."

With an enthusiastic nod, Ivan spun on his heel – Susan had never seen him move that fast before, even when she gave him first pick on free sample day – and darted out the kitchen door. Once he was gone, Susan hovered near the porthole-style window, torn between eavesdropping and decorating the remaining cakes.

In the end, curiosity won.

From her limited viewpoint, Susan saw Ivan rush forward and yank the Australian man into a full-bodied, bone-crunching hug.

"Put me down, you oversized idiot," Lawrence snapped. "I only just got my spine used to staying in place. Cost a pretty penny, too, in chiro bills."

"But I miss you, Sniper! Two years too long without friends! Too long without Doctor, and wimpy Scout, and-"

"Would you shut up?" Lawrence glanced toward the bakery's entrance. "We don't talk about the job, remember?"

Ivan frowned. The people rushing past the bakery's storefront didn't seem too interested in the conversation with his old friend. "Then why you here, if not to talk?"

After two years apart, the Sniper had forgotten just how aggravating a conversation with Ivan could be. The Australian rubbed at his temples and wished he'd remembered to pop a pain reliever beforehand. "We will talk, mate. But not here. Do you have, I don't know, an apartment or something?"

"Yes, but is far away. Takes long time by train."

"I have a van, mate."

"Good idea! We talk in van!"

Pain prickled at the Sniper's forehead. "Fine. Whatever. Can we just go?"

Ducks clambered at the sides of Lawrence's van, eager for the bits of bread that lingered in Ivan's apron pockets. The enormous man leaned out the passenger side window, chuckling to himself as he tossed crumbs at the handful of stragglers lingering on the outskirts of the flock.

"Ducks like bread, yes?" Ivan nearly had to yell over the insistent quacking of three dozen hungry birds. "Even better with friend here to feed with!"

"Ivan." Sniper tugged at a loose thread on his steering wheel cover. "Miss Pauling called me last month."

"Pauling? Pretty lady who worked for Announcer, yes?"

"Yeah. Said I was the only one she could find." Lawrence shrugged. He wouldn't mention that she'd found him through an ad for his pest removal service – which to his dismay tended to involve more raccoons and skunks and less alligators and cougars. "She said… well, she said they need us back at Teufort."

The laughing stopped. Slowly, Ivan turned to look at his former coworker. Crumbs fell unnoticed from his now-clenched fist. "What did Sniper say?"

In the back of Lawrence's mind, a tiny, dancing Sniper cheered. Sure, he'd thought Ivan would be the easiest one to persuade, but the Australian hadn't been able to be completely sure. "They want us back at Teufort, mate. Blutarch's not dead like they thought, and he's spent the last two years re-training his mercs. Miss Pauling said she thinks they're gettin' ready for one last push onto Redmond's land, and Redmond needs us there to defend it."

"We… we go back to fort? We fight again?"

Lawrence nodded.

"Aha!" The van rocked as Ivan happily punched the air. "This best day ever! When we leave?"

"Well, as soon as we can round up the others. We have to, er, find them. But-" Lawrence leaned over and flipped the glove compartment open. After a moment's searching, he pulled out a crumpled napkin covered in scribbles. "-I have some leads. Now that you're in, it looks like Conagher's the closest, so we'll start with him."

"Ahaha! This just be like old times!"

"Let's hope so, mate." Sniper pushed his sunglasses up. He spread the napkin on the steering wheel and squinted at the Engineer's scribbled address. "Let's hope so."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> Hope you enjoyed the first chapter. I'm feverishly brainstorming about what kind of careers the others might have fallen into after two years of downtime.


	2. Chapter 2

Dale Conagher turned the bird house over in his hands and sighed.

"Franklin, I think y'put the roof on inside out." To be honest, that was the best part about it. If he'd really felt like ruining the boy's ego, Dale would have mentioned the leaning walls, the uneven paint and the way the entrance looked less like a circle and more like a bowling pin. Holding the bird house by one corner to avoid the worst of the splinters, Conagher gently placed it back in his student's hands.

"I'm sorry, Mister Conagher." The dark-haired boy shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I tried my best. Can you at least give me a passing grade so it doesn't kill my GPA?"

Dale's scowl lessened. At fifteen, Franklin was already working after school to help feed his four younger siblings. Chances were the bird house he'd turned in had been hurriedly assembled a day or two before the due date. "Don't worry about it, son. I reckon we'll call it a B-plus."

The relieved sigh that burst from Franklin's lungs coaxed a smile out of his wood shop teacher.

"Thank you, Mister Conagher. I-" A sharp buzzer drowned whatever else Franklin had planned to say. With a grateful nod, the boy hurried to the door and disappeared into the hallway.

Conagher leaned back in his chair, scratching at the patch of close-cropped hair that poked out from beneath his cowboy hat. The empty classroom in front of him seemed twice as large, now that it wasn't full of hyperactive teenagers. Twice as tolerable, too. He looked forward to the few quiet minutes between classes each day. Now, though, he had an entire hour to himself.

With a groan, the Texan stood and swung the classroom door shut, cutting off the noise of the last few students in the hall. His stomach growled, but just then he had more important things on his mind. Food could come later.

The storeroom at the back of the room was locked, like always. After a moment of fumbling through the side pocket on his overalls for the key, Conagher slowly pulled the door open and slid inside, tugging the door shut behind him.

Conagher shrugged out of his suit jacket and rolled up his dress shirt's long sleeves. A pair of welding goggles dangled from a hook next to the door; Conagher pulled them on, blinking as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. Next came a pair of rubber gloves that ended at his elbow. The woodshop teacher breathed a sigh of relief. The administration might force him into some kind of city-boy getup during working hours, but they couldn't stop him from feeling more comfortable in _real_ work clothes.

Red light flooded the room as Conagher's fingers found the switch, illuminating dozens of shelves crammed with bits of piping and wire. But it was the table in the middle of the room that drew Conagher's attention – or, more specifically, the contraption sitting on it.

Conagher grinned. Months of sneaking stray bits of metal from the garbage bins, of volunteering to "dispose of" teachers' old computers for scavenged wires had finally paid off, of sacrificing every spare minute to hide in a stuffy closet had paid off.

All it needed was a power source.

The machine stood on three legs, a throwback to the security sentries he'd built and re-built a million times in the past. This one, though, was better, with two main barrels and a tiny mounted camera – the only thing he had purchased out right – programmed to recognize genetic signatures. Genetic signatures!

"Oh, if only we'd had you back at the fort," Conagher whispered, trailing his fingers across the gun's corrugated metal. "Those Blues never would have stood a chance."

The phone in Conagher's classroom jangled, just loud enough to be heard from the closet. Conagher's head snapped up. No one ever called for him, especially not while he was at work. As far as he could remember, he hadn't yelled at any students recently. He hadn't criticized anyone in his class for lack of vision, or lack of willingness to "go big or go home." In fact, he'd chosen the bird house project for that exact reason – it was hard to look at a crappy birdhouse and imagine heat-seeking missiles or regeneration nodes attached to the top.

The ringing stopped. Conagher sighed. Now he could get back to work.

Conagher reached into his pocket again, this time pulling a small black box out and setting it on the table in front of him. If he'd wired it right, the voltage in the box would be able to run the rig for six hours straight, or eight if he turned off the rotating feature. Excitement pressed at Conagher's stomach as he spread the copper wires protruding from the box. Three connections was all it would take, and then it would be ready.

"You about to fight a war, mate?"

Conagher smashed into the table so hard the power box went flying. It hit the wall with a crunch, clattering to the concrete in a shower of sparks. The smell of burning plastic filled the room.

For a moment, Conagher couldn't move. He stared, open-mouthed, at the ruined power box. "My... my..." He spun, squinting at the tall, thin figure silhouetted in the doorway.

"Ah, that's a bit of bad luck, there. Sorry, mate."

"Sorry? Sorry? You sorry sonuva-" Conagher stopped. For all he knew he was addressing an administrator. Or worse, a parent. "I mean- I can explain-"

The man in the doorway chuckled and moved forward, nudging the door open as he entered. "You should know nothin' needs explaining around me, Conagher. Sorry for giving you a bit of a shock, there."

Conagher frowned. He recognized that voice. "Mundy?"

With a grin, Lawrence Mundy slung an arm around his former colleage's shoulders. "In the flesh."

"Mundy!" The machine forgotten, Conagher yanked the Sniper into a one-armed hug. "What are you doing here?"

"Well we tried callin'-" Lawrence nodded toward the phone. "-but they said you weren't answerin', so we just came right in."

"'We?'"

A head appeared in the doorway. "Ivan is here too."

Conagher felt the smile on his face begin to fade. The shock and happiness from seeing his former colleagues was turning into something else, something he couldn't identify. He leaned against the table and took a deep breath, resisting the urge to put his head in his hands. Lawrence and Ivan brought a flood of memories with them, and there was no way Conagher could have prepared for it. And now there was no way to block them out.

To their credit, Lawrence and Ivan stayed quiet while Conagher collected his thoughts. Finally, he ran a hand over his head and looked up at them. "Can we talk outside? I don't want anyone looking in on us and seeing the… y'know." He gestured at the gun.

"Sure thing."

Conagher fought to keep the embarrassment off his face as he pulled the suit jacket back on and directed Ivan and Lawrence toward his teacher's desk. For himself and his Australian friend, Conagher pulled two molded plastic chairs from the student desks. Ivan sat on a thick wooden stepstool – Conagher had a feeling that was the only piece of furniture in the room that would support his weight. As his former colleagues settled, Conagher turned his chair so he could lean his arms on the back rest.

"So… what brings y'all here?" There was no disguising Conagher's suspicion. It dripped from every word that came out of his mouth. "I ain't believin' y'all are just here on a social call."

Lawrence leaned forward, pulling the hat off his head so he could turn it in his hands. "Six weeks ago, I got a call from that assistant sheila Pauling. She said new information had surfaced that proved Blutarch Mann is alive."

"Impossible."

"Is true, Engineer." The stool creaked under Ivan's weight.

"Dale," Conagher corrected. "I'm Dale here."

"Is hard for Ivan to remember. Ivan's head filled with recipes now. Can not remember what had for breakfast, but can remember delicious way to make pasties."

After a brief pause, Conagher turned back to Lawrence. Sometimes, ignoring Ivan was the best course of action. "Even if what y'say is true, what does that mean for us? Wouldn't Redmond just hire a new set of fighters?"

Before Lawrence could respond, something slammed into the other side of the classroom door. There was a giggle, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps heading down the hallway. Lawrence rolled his eyes. "I dunno how you stand kids, Conagher."

"Neither do I."

"Anyway." Lawrence ran the corner of his shirt over his sunglasses. "Pauling said Helen is livid. Blutarch's people slipped it right under her nose. All those release forms for Blutarch's mercs? Completely fabricated. They've been there the entire time, waiting and training. Helen wants us back there by the end of the week to put a pin in Blutarch's plans."

"The end of the week? Mundy, there's no way I could do that." Conagher scooted his chair forward with a grunt. "The administration will skin me alive if I leave on such short notice. I can't just-"

"Pauling said our pay would be double what we were making last time. Think of it, mate."

Ivan frowned. "Ivan not get paid to fight."

"That's because you ate three times as much as the rest of us, mate." Lawrence rested his elbows on his knees. "Think of it, Conagher. Stick with it six months and you'll have made enough for three years here. Three years of dealing with snot-nosed brats, or six months of doing what you do best – building brilliant machines that kill people."

"Six months…"

The Australian leaned back and spread his arms. He knew he'd won. "That's all Pauling

said it would take. After that, you find a new teachin' job, or you find something else. Something you actually enjoy. You could even sell those blueprints of yours, make a pretty penny from the government. Retire."

Conagher scratched at his chin. An image of the new machine squirreled away in the broom closet appeared in his mind. Six months would be more than enough time to test it. And against real people, to boot – none of that namby-pamby fake target nonsense.

"Who all is in so far?"

"Just us, for now. We're trackin' 'em down, though."

Excitement – even stronger than what he'd felt before, alone with his newest machine – nudged at Conagher's stomach. Six months. "Then count me in, Mundy. And I might be able to help with roundin' the guys up. I'm pretty sure I know where to find Doe."

"Soldier!" Ivan bounced in his seat. "Oh, will be good to see him again! I miss puppet shows! Puppets were so real!"

"That's because they _were_ real. Never did understand that man's fascination with severed heads. But once we find Doe, I'm sure he'll lead us to DeGroot." Conagher stood. It felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. When he glanced at the clock, he saw that his free period was nearly over. "If you'll let me finish out the day here, I'll take y'to him."

Lawrence nodded. "We'll meet you in the parking lot at four."

"Perfect." That would give Conagher time to pack up the machine. It would also give him a couple of hours to come up with an excuse for leaving at the end of the week to give the administrators. "See y'there."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: Thanks for reading! And thanks for the reviews so far, too. I appreciate all of them.

I had originally intended to upload this tomorrow (Friday) but it's shaping up to be a crazy day at work, so I decided to get this chapter out of the way. From here on out, I'm shooting for a new chapter every Friday.

Please keep sending me suggestions for the other classes!


	3. Chapter 3

Cars flashed by Lawrence's van in the fading sunlight, their tail lights reflecting off the pavement like falling embers. Inside the van, Conagher half-knelt between the front and middle row of seats, one hand gripped on Lawrence's chair as he peered through the windshield. In the passenger's seat, Ivan hummed to himself happily, tapping his feet to a beat that only he could hear.

"We're gonna miss him if you don't speed it up a little." Conagher snuck a glance at the speedometer. "You're doing twenty-five. It's forty through here."

Lawrence shrugged, ignoring what felt like the hundredth car that flew past them with its horn blaring. "She doesn't go much faster than this, mate."

"If you'd just let me have a look at the engine-"

"None doin'. I won't have you tamperin' with my car." Lawrence shot Conagher a glare through the rearview mirror. "Knowin' you, you'd stick 'er on tank treads and have 'er firin' lasers."

Conagher shrugged. "They'd be smallish lasers. Discreet-like. Sophisticated, even."

"No." The van approached a street sign. Lawrence tapped the brake and squinted. "Standifer Road. That the one?"

"Nah, we're looking for Brinkley. Pretty sure it's a few blocks up."

With a sigh, Lawrence coaxed the van back up to its top speed. The motor rattled in protest, sending black clouds of smoke billowing into the air. Ivan continued to hum, occasionally punctuating the tune with Russian words neither of his companions could translate.

"So how did you know Soldier's out here anyway, mate?"

"I was late to work and took a shortcut down Brinkley. The idiot ran out in front of me with a stop sign in his hands. Nearabouts ran him over."

"Did he recognize you?"

"Pff. No idea. He hollered something at me, but I was so late I just kept going. When I came back by that evening, I tried to talk to him, but he told me fraternizing with an on-duty peace officer was a fineable offense. Then he threw a hamburger wrapper at my head."

"Yeah, that sounds like 'im." Lawrence tapped the right blinker. "Brinkley. There she is."

As the van slowed, Conagher shifted so he was sitting in the middle seat. He shoved a pile of dirty clothes aside, pausing to cast a disgusted glance in Lawrence's direction, then tugged the seat belt out of its holster and snapped it around his midsection.

"What you doin' that for? We're almost there."

"I told you before. The idiot ran out in front of me, and I don't fancy flyin' through yer windshield when y'hit yer brakes."

"Ah. Makes sense." The steering wheel creaked under Lawrence's tight grip. "Where's the crossing?"

"Right up the road. Y'can't miss it."

All three men leaned forward as they neared the intersection. A knot of students waited at one side of the road, surrounding a slicker-clad figure holding an eight-foot stop sign. Lawrence grinned. "There 'e is."

But as the crossing guard moved forward, Conagher frowned. A white-haired woman stood in front of them, her yellow jacket bright in the van's headlights. She smiled at the men in the van and gave them a half-wave as the kids surged around her and across the street.

"Nice evening, huh?" She called through the van's open passenger side window.

Ivan nodded. "Is very nice."

As the last few stragglers hurried to the other side of the road, Lawrence whipped around to face the back of the van. "I thought you said he'd be here, Conagher."

The woodshop teacher returned Lawrence's glare with one of his own. "I ain't psychic, Mundy. This was my best bet."

Lawrence ran a hand over his face and bit back a groan. The leads he'd garnered in six weeks of scraping for any news of his former colleagues had run out, extending only as far as Ivan and Conagher's locations. The unexpected knowledge from Conagher had been a stroke of luck, one he'd counted on to lead them to the rest of the Reds. Now they'd hit a dead end. He had four days to find the rest of the team and get them back to Tuefort, otherwise it was back to a life of fishing squirrels out of chimneys for terrified housewives. Miss Pauling had made it clear – if he couldn't get them back to the fort by then, Redmond's chunk of land was as good as lost. Lawrence should have known better, should have expected the dumb luck that took him to Ivan and Conagher to run out. A string of whispered curses flew through Lawrence's lips.

"'scuse me, Miss." Conagher undid his seatbelt and scooted so he was between the two front seats again. He leaned across Ivan until he was halfway out the window. "We're lookin' for a, uh, friend. Calls himself John Doe. Last we heard from 'im, he was workin' as a crossing guard here."

Something hard flitted across the woman's eyes. Her free hand balled into a fist. "Oh, I remember him." With one last look to make sure her charges had made it across the street, the woman lowered her sign.

Lawrence opened his eyes. Were they back on track?

"Owch! Engineer's elbow is in Ivan's spleen!"

"Ah, sorry about that." Conagher leaned back and half-crawled to the van's side door. It swung open with a squeal, allowing Conagher to hoist himself out. "Y'wouldn't happen to know where we could find him, would you ma'am?"

For one long moment, the woman stared at them, and Conagher was afraid she was about to send them off without any word on Doe. She hadn't looked too happy when they'd brought him up, after all.

Finally, the crossing guard took a deep breath. "Pull up next to the curb. I might be able to point you in the right direction." She turned and made her way back to the sidewalk, her tightly-coiled gray hair bouncing as she walked.

Conagher turned and pulled the door shut. "You heard her. Pull in."

"John Doe was terminated from this position last week." The crossing guard – she had introduced herself as Carol – rested the stop sign against the wall next to her. "There were some… questions about his methods."

"Questions?" Conagher crossed his arms and leaned against the side of the van. Lawrence stood next to him, his expression unreadable.

The look Carol gave him dripped with suspicion. "I imagine you fellows are well aware of the way John acts if you call him a friend. They said he had a habit of hitting windshields with his sign if they didn't stop fast enough for his liking. Wound up with more complaints in a month of working here than most guards do in their entire careers."

Ivan nodded his approval from his position in the passenger's seat. He leaned out the open window as much as his size would allow. "That sounds like Soldier."

Lawrence's stomach churned. There was no sense in telling that oversized idiot to shut up about old nicknames. They'd already done it a hundred times. He turned his attention back to Carol. If she had heard Ivan use Doe's old moniker, she didn't react to it. "And, er, do y'happen to know where he took off to, after he left here?"

Carol shrugged. "He was always talking about making extra money doing 'real man's work.' Far as we could gather, he spent most nights at the pit."

"The pit?"

Conagher cleared his throat. "It's a fighting ring in the back room of that tavern by the highway. Been there a couple times, myself." He turned to Carol. "And you think we could find him there?"

"Well, he sure isn't welcome around here anymore." Wind whipped at Carol's jacket. She jammed her hands in her pockets. "That's the only other place I can think of."

Thunder sounded overhead. Lawrence glanced at the sky with a scowl. The van handled even worse in the rain. "Let's get movin' then, mates. Soon."

The Texan directed a grateful nod in Carol's direction. "We sure do appreciate the help."

With a shrug, Carol wrapped her hand around the stop sign and turned to leave. "Just don't be bringing him back here. We've all had enough of him."

"Well, folks," Lawrence said as he and Conagher slid back inside the van. "Who's up for a little excitement?"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> Technically this is only half a chapter. Think of it as a preview, or a stand-alone, or a deleted scene. I cut it in two for a couple reasons. One, I didn't want to upload a 3,400 word document and make some mondo-chapter that would be a beast on one page. Two, this part of the story really isn't necessary, but I loved the idea of Solly having a brief stint as a crossing guard and didn't want to cut it out.

What I'll do is upload the second half - the actual plot-progressing half - Friday, like usual.

Hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for the reviews so far. Tune in for more tomorrow!


	4. Chapter 4

Loose bits of dirt crunched beneath the men's feet as they approached the tavern. The light in the parking lot around them was limited to one flickering streetlight and an occasional flash of highlights from the highway. Even if they couldn't see the cars that flew past the tavern at seventy miles an hour, a steady rumble surrounded them, punctuated by the beep of a horn or the sound of squealing brakes.

Lawrence tugged at the collar of his vest, scowling. The rain had stopped, but not fast enough to keep from soaking the heavy stuffing. It felt like a frozen piece of vinyl pressed against his neck.

Conagher was in a better mood. He led the way, hands thrust in his pockets as the last few stubborn rain drops slid off the back of his hat.

"Soldier is here to fight, ya?" Ivan walked next to his Australian friend, apparently oblivious to the chill the rain had left in the air.

"That's what we're hoping, mate." The vest brushed at Lawrence's neck again. He resisted the urge to throw it on the ground and stomp on it, reminding himself of the thin shirt he wore beneath it. Some protection from the cold was better than none at all.

Ivan made a soft, contemplative noise. "Ivan fight too?"

"'Fraid not. We're just here to get him." Lawrence's icy stare silenced Ivan's whine.

In front of them, Conagher held the tavern door open with one hand. They trailed after him, Lawrence fighting back the urge to shiver and Ivan still grumbling under his breath at the injustice of missing a brawl.

Inside the tavern, knots of people screamed to be heard over the deafening twang of bad country music. Lawrence glanced from one end of the bar to the other – none of the people inside looked like the brawling sort. Where were the black eyes and swelling bruises?

"Follow me." Conagher had to lean in until his lips were almost against Lawrence's ear and shout. Without waiting for a reply, the Texan shoved his way past a group of giggling women and made his way toward the back of the building.

A blanket hung against the far wall, supported by several dozen push-pins and what looked like the remnants of several rolls of duct tape. When Conagher touched it, it gave off an overwhelming smell of sweat, cigarette smoke, and blood.

"Just like I remember." Conagher made a face and pulled the blanket sideways, revealing a narrow hallway. "Y'all hurry up."

Once it was closed, the blanket curtain muffled the noise from the bar behind the men as they made their way down the hallway. The wooden floor was worn smooth from years, if not decades of use, its stained surface dull in the low light.

Next came a flight of uneven stairs. Conagher led the way, one hand against the wall to keep from losing his balance. It took all of Lawrence's willpower to follow his friend and ignore the walls on either side of him, close enough to brush both shoulders. His breath came in shallow gasps.

"Y'all right back there?"

The Australian could only manage an affirmative grunt.

"How about Ivan?"

It was then Lawrence realized he hadn't heard the enormous man follow them down the stairs. Hunching his shoulders, he shifted until he could look over his shoulder, only to see the empty staircase behind him.

"Ivan?" Lawrence's voice was strained. "You up there, mate?"

A voice came from the top of the stairs. "Ivan cannot fit. Almost got stuck."

"Try turnin' yerself sideways." Conagher had stopped a couple steps below his former colleague. He leaned as far as he could forward so he could see past Lawrence and up the stairs.

"Okay. Will try." There was a grunt, then the sound of cloth scraping on concrete. When Lawrence looked back again, he saw Ivan slowly descending the stairs, one hand holding his belly as far in as possible.

Conagher resumed his descent. They were getting closer, he knew – the muted bar noises above were starting to be drowned out by the screams and cheers from below. Lawrence followed, struck by a sudden urge to hurry and get out of the closed-in passageway that pushed at him from all sides. Behind them, Ivan shuffled along sideways, his face set in a frown.

"This not what I thought Sniper meant when he said we getting team back together."

"Just be patient, mate. We'll be –" he dropped his voice to a low whisper, "-killin' folks again before you know it."

The stairs abruptly ended, replaced by an uneven dirt path that was half-hidden in the darkness. Lawrence stumbled forward as he hit the path, catching himself on Conagher's shoulder. The Texan jumped and spun, only to breathe a sigh of relief when he saw who had run into him.

"Sorry 'bout that." Lawrence straightened.

"Don't worry about it. Old habits, y'know."

One last grunt announced Ivan's arrival at the bottom of the stairs. "Where we go now?"

But even if Ivan couldn't see the pit's entrance, Lawrence could. A heavy iron door stood a few feet in front of them. It looked as if it had been carved into the earth itself to hold back the sounds of what had to be a hundred people beyond it. Lawrence allowed himself a deep breath, even though the musty air inside the passage made him want to gag.

Conagher strode forward and pulled the door open, unleashing a wave of noise that made all three of them wince. With one last, determined look back at his friends, Conagher ducked inside.

The pit was aptly named. Stadium lights were set at each corner of the enormous underground room. Its outer rims were higher, with terraced steps that circled around a slightly raised rectangular floor. In the middle, bungee ropes and rods carved out the fighting area. The majority of the crowd hovered around the ropes, pushing to get a better look at the brawlers inside the barrier.

A short, round man stood on a raised dais on the far side of the barrier.

"And now, the moment you've all been waiting for!" The man crowed into a microphone in his hand. "The underdog, the All-American fighter…"

The rest of his introduction was drowned out by the crowd's roar. As Conagher, Lawrence and Ivan neared, they could see a well-muscled man in a white undershirt and pair of army-green pants sitting against the bungees, his back to the crowd. His opponent, a tiny, wiry man in a read jumpsuit, bounced around the rectangle with his arms over his head.

The first man stood and followed a black-clad referee into the middle of the ring. He scratched at his close-cropped hair as the referee explained the rules in a murmur only he and his opponent could hear. Slowly, the noise from the crowd decreased, as if they were holding their breath in anticipation of the fight about to unfold in front of them.

Then, with a quick upward-chopping motion of his hand, the referee yelled, "Fight!" and

the men hopped backward, fists at their chins in anticipation of the first punch.

The three mercenaries lingered on the edges of the crowd. Conagher stood on his toes, peering over the knot of people in front of him. "Is that him? It sure looks like him."

"Not sure." Lawrence squinted. "We'll 'ave to get closer."

That proved easier said than done, especially where Ivan was concerned. The enormous man took one look at the shoulder-to-shoulder group in front of him and shrugged. "Will stay here."

A cheer rose from the audience as the red-suited fighter landed a punch. Conagher sighed. "We'll come back for you once we find out if it's him or not, alright? Stay close."

As Conagher and Lawrence made their way toward the ring, the white-shirted fighter ducked a high punch from his opponent and twisted forward, ramming him squarely in the sternum. The red-suited fighter gasped and lurched backward, one hand still up to guard his face as the other pressed against his chest. Before he could react, his opponent landed an uppercut on his jaw that snapped his head back and sent him to the mat.

With a triumphant roar, the white-shirted fighter watched as red-shirt hit the dirt floor, chest heaving. As he waited for the prone man to rise, he turned so Lawrence and Conagher, still stuck in the middle of the celebratory crowd, could see his face.

Two years of the "easy life" hadn't changed John Doe much. A long scar ran from one cheekbone to the other, scoring a little deeper as it crossed the bridge of his nose. His hair was more salt-and-pepper than the shade of black it used to be, but the wild look in his eyes was just as severe as it had been back at the fort.

"Quit blubbering, Nancy, and get up! There's no honor in a one-sided victory!" Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Doe ran a hand across his mouth, eyed the red streak it left, and wiped it on his pants. "Hurry up! They don't pay me as much if you go down in round one!"

Lawrence found an opening in front of him and squeezed through. Before Conagher could do the same, the crowd shifted, blocking the two of them off. A wave of claustrophobia hit the Australian – if there was anything worse than being closed in, it was being closed in _by people_ – but he forced himself forward until he was against the dirt pedestal that rose to the fighting ring.

"Doe!"

The fighter gave no indication that he'd heard. Instead, he circled his prone opponent, nudging at him with a toe and goading him to get off his duff and not ruin the fun. Lawrence glanced on either side of him, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled.

"Soldier!"

Immediately, Doe froze. He slowly turned his attention from the man in front of him and looked out at the crowd, scanning it from one end to the other. No one had called him that in years. And somewhere, past five hundred drunken nights and more blows to the head than he could count, he recognized that voice.

But that was all his opponent needed. The red-shirted fighter leapt to his feet and swung, his entire body lurching forward as his fist connected with the side of Doe's head. A loud crack sounded through the pit, loud enough to momentarily silence the audience. His eyes wide, Doe swayed on his feet, then dropped to the floor.

The referee stepped in to pull the red-shirted fighter away before he could land a heavy kick aimed at Doe's ribs. As Doe mumbled to himself on the floor, the announcer's voice declared the end of the round.

With some difficulty, the referee dragged Doe to his corner and propped him up on a stool. A medic – Lawrence had briefly entertained the hope that they'd find _the_ Medic here, too, but they weren't that lucky – climbed through the bungee ropes and held a flashlight to Doe's half-open eyes.  
>Lawrence took the opportunity to haul himself to the corner where Doe sat, his fingers locked around the ropes in case someone tried to pry him away. "Doe."<p>

Doe's head lolled to the side. His half-focused eyes landed on Lawrence. "…I think I remember you… You blew a Spy's brains out the side of his head, just as he was about to stab me. Was that you?"

Lawrence risked a glance up at the doctor. Thankfully, the man was more focused on making sure Doe's skull was intact than their conversation. "That was me, mate. Can you get out of here and come talk to me? Conagher and Ivan are here too."

"Can't leave the fight, man. The only honorable outcome – " Ignoring the doctor's protests, Doe shakily climbed to his feet. "-is victory, and I am a man of honor."

At that, Doe lumbered back into the middle of the ring, where his grinning opponent waited.

"Alright Nancy," Doe murmured. "Let's dance."

As soon as the referee moved, Doe jumped forward, digging the sole of his shoe into his opponent's foot. The red-shirted fighter howled and stumbled back, just in time for Doe's fist to connect with his nose. Doe followed that punch with another that snapped his opponent's head to the side, followed by a kick that sent him careening to the floor.

Lawrence stared, open-mouthed. The entire exchange had taken less than thirty seconds. Despite all the times they'd fought together, the Australian had never seen Doe go after an opponent without a weapon. Now, though, he was kind of glad for that.

Doe smirked from the middle of the ring as the referee stopped the fight. The cheer that came from the crowd could be felt through the dirt floor. Their champion had prevailed.

"Doe!" Lawrence hissed, waving a hand at Doe. "Now can we talk?"

A thick stack of bills landed in Doe's hand. He yelled his response back to Lawrence. "Yeah, sure, but do you think we can go upstairs? It's kind of loud in here. Don't know what's got everyone so excited."

Back inside the tavern, the four men crowded around a round table stuffed in the corner of the room.

Doe took a long swig of his drink, finishing with a relieved sigh. He'd stuck the corner of a napkin against his busted lip; the paper, stuck to his skin with blood, was slowly turning red. "Gotta say, I never expected to see you three here. Specially you." He nodded in Conagher's direction. "You never liked getting your hands dirty. Always let your machines do the work for you."

Lawrence elbowed Conagher before he could protest. "Well, mate, we're here for business. Specifically, they're wantin' us back at the fort. One last big battle."

The noises around them proved to be a perfect cover for explaining Miss Pauling's call, the news that Blutarch Mann was not dead, and the need for Redmond's mercenaries to re-assemble. Doe took it in without question, only interrupting Lawrence's story when he wanted the bar attendant to refill his beer. The three men eyed him hopefully as Lawrence finished his explanation, waiting to see whether Doe would be added to their ranks and return with them to Teufort.

"Gotta say." Doe rolled a toothpick between his hands. "I've missed the explodin' parts. Crunchin a man in the mug is fun and all, but nothing beats watching him blow into a thousand pieces right in front of you. I haven't seen an internal organ since they shut Teufort down."

Conagher leaned forward. "Y'sayin' you'll come with us?"

Doe shrugged. "There's only so much I can do with these fists. I miss the old RPG-7. Now there was a piece of work that would do some damage. I miss the heat of a rocket-propelled grenade flying by my head, the roar of battle, the slippery feel of a man's innards at my feet!"

"Er… yes. Exactly." Now for the part that made Lawrence nervous. "And do you know where any of the other guys are?"

"Course I do!" Doe slammed his fists against the table. "What kind of a man abandons his team just because the battle's over? I'll point you right to 'em. I-"

At that, Doe's head dropped. He slid forward in his chair, crumpling into the floor with his eyes closed and a faint smile on his face. Lawrence jumped forward, but Ivan held him back with an arm.

"Don't worry. I see this before." Ivan nodded at the heap that was their colleague. "Back at fort, he do this every time he get concussion, then drink. Goes right to his head."

Conagher eyed Doe, his eyebrows raised. "Ah, what do you reckon we do then?"

Lawrence glanced at the tavern around them. "Ivan, pick 'im up. We'll cart 'im out of here, just one more drunk."

"But he never did agree to come with us."

"That's a technicality, mate. Ivan, grab 'im."

"No, that's called kidnapping."

"Oh, come on. He'll come to his senses in the van. Then 'e can lead us to the others. He did say he knows where they are."

The Texan didn't look too happy as Ivan slung the unconscious Doe over his shoulder. But he dutifully followed behind his two friends, casting irritable scowls at anyone who looked their way.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Mundy."

"Pah. You know as well as I do that I've been playing it by ear the entire time."

Once the men were back to the van, Conagher opened the door and allowed Ivan to sling Doe into the back seat.

"Where we headed now?" Conagher settled into the middle row, turning so he keep an eye on Doe and still talk to Lawrence and Ivan in the front.

The van shuddered to life. Lawrence smiled and patted the steering wheel. "You got an apartment? From what I gather, Ivan's is a ways off."

Conagher frowned. Letting his old teammates back into his life was all well and good, but he wasn't sure whether or not he wanted these men to know where he lived. "You not have a place around here, Mundy?"

The Australian barked a laugh. "You're in it, mate."

In Conagher's mind, the desire for sleep warred with the desire for a chaos-free home. Finally, though, sleep won out. "Make a right out of the parking lot. I've got a pull-out bed that'll fit two of you. The other'n can fight over the floor."

"Soldier not mind floor, I think."

"See?" A smile spread across Lawrence's face. "Perfect. Just like the old days."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: Ok, so I lied. It turned out to be a mondo-chapter even WITH the break. My bad.

I have a feeling I'll be ending a lot of chapters with Solly being toted around like a rag doll. He strikes me as a man who spends a lot of time unconscious.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed! See you next week!


	5. Chapter 5

The examination room looked like it belonged in a slasher flick. Dark stains trailed down the walls in grimy rivulets only to collect in long-dried pools on the chipped linoleum floor. A rectangular window set near the ceiling offered some light, but years of exposure to formaldehyde and other, more questionable chemicals had left its surface foggy and gray. The only other light came from a single naked bulb that hung from a long black cord in the center of the room, just bright enough to illuminate the stainless steel table beneath it.

The room's only door – a heavy iron number with a tiny barred window near the top – flew open, causing the light bulb to sway in the sudden breeze. Two men shuffled inside, their steps slowed by a large burlap bag held between the two of them. With twin grunts, they heaved the bag backward, flinging it onto the table with a thump. One of the men shifted his weight from foot to foot and cleared his throat.

"So, er…" He scratched at his filthy, salt-and-pepper beard. "D'we just leave 'im here, or what?"

His companion, a midsize dark-headed man who looked like he was in his mid-forties, shrugged, the movement almost lost in the enormous shoulders of his threadbare coat. "'Course we do. 'E don't know no better, not now at least. Thank God for that, too."

"What 'appens to 'em, once they're dropped off 'ere?"

"No idea. Don't think we _want_ to know. All I know's we get paid once a month to tote the stiffs in 'ere, no questions asked."

A scratching noise from one of the room's dark corners distracted the men from their discussion, long enough for the dark-haired man to turn toward the door.

"C'mon. Let's get outta 'ere before the Doc comes back."

But he was too late. A tall, square-shouldered silhouette appeared in the doorway. Light bounced off a pair of round spectacles balanced on the end of the new arrival's nose. In one hand, he held a small ice chest that was no longer white, but stained a shade of rosy pink.

"Freunds. May I be of assistance?"

The newcomer's appearance sent the two men scurrying backward until they bumped the table. It swayed, nearly sending the burlap bag and its contents onto the floor.

"Er, no sir. Sorry, sir. We was just goin', sir." The dark-haired man fumbled for his friend's scarf. Tugging his companion along, he slid past the person in the doorway and practically sprinted down the hallway.

Niklas Schröder pushed his glasses so they sat further up the bridge of his nose. He watched the men go, the beginnings of a smile playing on his lips as salt-and-pepper loudly protested about being dragged down the hall like a dog on a chain. Once the shouting quieted, the doctor stepped inside the examination room and shut the door behind him.

"Now, let's have a look, shall ve?" With almost childlike enthusiasm, the doctor crossed the room. He dropped the ice chest in the floor, then turned his attention toward the burlap bag and quickly undid the twine that held it closed. A clump of matted hair poked out from the bag's top. Smirking, the doctor tugged the bag down, exposing graying flesh, milky eyes and dirt-covered clothing in turn. Niklas's grin widened. The poor man that now rested on the table in front of him was in great shape, and by the looks of it he'd only been dead a few days, at most. A find like this only came about once a month, if that.

Niklas took a step back to pull one of the table's dozens of drawers open, revealing dozens of glittering tools carefully arranged side-by-side on velvet lining. The doctor took a moment to look them over and ensure they were free of bloodstains – or worse; after all, his 'clientele' deserved only the best, and he didn't want his reputation hurt by rumors of infection. Once he was sure his tools were spotless, the doctor set about the unhappy task of removing the corpse from his Sunday-best jacket and slacks. The act of burying dead men and women in perfect clothing baffled the doctor – the dead had no say in the matter, and wouldn't be affected even if they were dropped in the ground wearing no more clothes than they were born in.

Once the corpse was disrobed, the doctor positioned a scalpel at the hollow where left shoulder connected to chest. He allowed himself a moment for one deep, calming breath, then dug the scalpel in and drew it downward to the corpse's sternum. From there, he made a similar cut from the corpse's right shoulder, joining the V-shape with one long cut that trailed down the middle of the man's stomach and ended at his hips.

The doctor peeled the corpse's skin back, pausing only to swap tools so he could remove the upper part of his subject's ribcage. Within ten minutes of starting the procedure, he'd successfully opened up his subject's chest cavity. The doctor beamed at the mess of congealed blood and half-hidden organs in front of him.

"Ah, yes," Niklas breathed. The dead man hadn't exactly been in the prime of life, but his organs – at least the ones he could see so far – were top-notch. "Perfect."

The heart came out first. Niklas gingerly removed it from the corpse and deposited it on a blood-soaked stainless steel tray balanced on the edge of the table. Even if none of the man's other parts were usable, the heart alone would net him enough to live out the rest of the year in comfort. Especially if it was a match for Eddie Cabrone.

Next, Niklas transferred the heart into the ice chest, quickly sliding the lid shut to keep the cool air trapped inside. He peeled his examination gloves off and draped them over the corpse's chest. He could take care of the rest of the organs later, if one of his birdies brought rumor of a big-money name in need of parts. No sense in storing a dozen bits that would just go bad in a matter of hours, not when the biggest deal of his two-year career would be happening in less than an hour.

The doctor shrugged on his dark grey pea coat, one of the few articles of clothing the man owned that wasn't covered in blood stains. Niklas's smile widened as he buttoned it up to his throat. This was the big one. If he pulled off this deal – and what kind of heart failure patient would refuse a quick fix when it was staring him in the face? - he was set.

(-)

Conagher stared helplessly at the human tornado currently tearing through his kitchen. "I don't keep much other'n sandwich fixings here."

"Pah!" John Doe slammed a cabinet door shut. "I want _man_'s food, ya Nancy! Steak and eggs! _Falcon_ eggs!"

"I… I reckon the diner down the street might still be servin' breakfast." The Engineer glanced over his shoulder to lock eyes with Lawrence, who hovered in the short hallway that led to the apartment's living room. "It's only a few blocks away. We can walk there."

Doe paused, his expression contemplative. For a man who had spent the entire night in an unconscious stupor, he looked remarkably well-rested. He scratched at the plaid sweat pants he'd borrowed from Conagher for the night – they were about six inches too short, but they were comfortable enough – as he weighed the options in his mind. One the one hand, he was hungry _now_. On the other, _sandwiches._

"Yeah, I suppose that'll do." Doe fixed Conagher with a glare. "But they better have biscuits and gravy. God help them if they don't have biscuits and gravy."

A voice came from the other end of the apartment. "Engineer! Ivan need plunger!"

Conagher fought the urge to scream, settling instead on balling his fists and taking a deep breath. Sharing a barrack with these men for years had been one thing. Having them stay at his apartment was another matter entirely. And he didn't like it. Pausing for a second to count to ten in his head, the Texan leaned around the entryway.

"Ivan, the plunger's under the sink. The rest of you, get dressed. We're going out for breakfast."

(-)

The ice chest bumped against Niklas's hip as he strolled down Fifth Street. Knots of pedestrians parted around him, as if they somehow knew he was a man on a mission. The only time he was held up was by a group of giggling teenage girls, who slowed as they approached him and eyed him up and down. The doctor resisted the urge to grin, instead confidently patting the slicked-back hair on his head and nodding in the girls' direction.

Eddie Cabrone spent most of his days holed up in an old fish-packing warehouse a couple blocks away from downtown. Ever since his heart failure he'd been even less likely to leave the safety of the warehouse's reinforced windows and full-time security detail that made the secret service look like a tea party. Niklas had first gotten wind of the mobster's predicament when he'd secured a small intestine for one of the Cabrone's informants. Small intestine didn't pay as well as some of the more popular organs, but the man had paid well enough to cover Niklas's lease for six months. And the surgery had been so simple and painless that word had spread all the way up to the mob boss himself. Miraculous, they'd called it.

No one knew the doctor still operated with the floor-mounted health gun that had gotten him through his mercenary days.

The warehouse loomed in front of Niklas, all weathered gray wood and tinted glass. Two black, late-model cars sat on each end of the curb. It was impossible to see in through the cars' dark windows, but Niklas had a feeling two carloads full of guards watched him as he approached the building's double doors.

Two knocks later, one door swung open, revealing five men. Four of them, dressed in something akin to modified riot gear, pointed assault rifles squarely at Niklas's chest. The fifth, a mid-sized man with black hair pulled into a tight ponytail, stared at Niklas with unmasked suspicion.

"What's your business?"

Niklas tried his best to look nervous about the firearms just feet from his vital organs. "I am Doctor Schröder. I vas contacted two weeks ago to secure… something for Mister Cabrone."

The four guards exchanged confused looks. It was as Niklas had suspected; the mob boss hadn't let many people know about his poor health. Given the number of enemies Cabrone had made throughout the year, Niklas couldn't blame him.

The man who had spoken allowed his eyes to trail from the doctor's face to the cooler. "Is that the item?"

"Da."

"And are you… prepared to, uh, install it now?"

"I am." Niklas smiled. "So long as Mister Cabrone is agreeable."

The mob boss's doorman made a gesture with his hand. The four gunmen lowered their weapons, though their eyes remained fixed on the doctor. Niklas allowed himself a relieved breath as the doorman stepped forward and beckoned for the doctor to follow him.

Despite Cabrone's affinity for using people who owed him money as target practice, the mob boss knew how to decorate. Niklas raised his eyebrows as he followed the doorman, impressed at the gold-gilded high ceilings and the staircase bannister inlaid with what looked like ivory. From the outside, no one would ever guess the warehouse was decked out from top to bottom in this kind of finery.

The doctor shifted the ice chest so it was pinned beneath one arm, gripping the banister with his free hand as he trotted up the stairs. Yes, it was definitely ivory. Impressive.

"I apologize for the inconvenience," the doorman said, his back to the doctor as he led the way up the stairs. "Our elevator has been out for several weeks, and Mister Cabrone is, ah, hesitant to bring a repairman in."

Even though the man in front couldn't see him, the doctor smiled. Years spent running through the Manns' ridiculous buildings made the warehouse's three flights feel like a summer stroll. Not to mention the fact that a year of leisure waited for him at the top. "It's no trouble. No trouble at all."

(-)

"Waitress! Waitreeeeeeess!"

In unison, Conagher and Lawrence pressed their heads into their hands. In the booth across the table from them, Doe banged on one of the diner's plastic glasses with his spoon. A half-eaten plate of ham, biscuits, gravy and hash browns sat in front of him. Next to that were a dozen or so empty plates, the results of Doe and Ivan's repeated trips to the diner's all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet.

After several seconds of banging and yelling – and more than a few angry glares from the other diners – a bleary-eyed server with blond curls held back by a loose hairnet approached the table. "What can I get you, sir?"

"I require more of the orange fizzy drink! And this time, hold the ice!" Doe held the cup under the server's nose, rattling the half-melted ice cubes inside. "I will not stand for watered-down drinks! What kind of establishment serves watered-down drinks? It's practically un-American!"

"Can Ivan have more milk?" The enormous man smiled hopefully up at the server. "Biscuits stick to top of mouth, see?"

The server's eyes widened at the sight of half-chewed food practically overflowing out of Ivan's mouth. Wordlessly, she grabbed the cup out of Doe's hand and headed back to the kitchen, irritation spelled out in every step she took.

With a soft "hmph!" Doe dug back in to his meal with almost inhuman gusto, belching and shoveling two or more different foods in his mouth at a time. Beside him, Ivan wasn't faring much better. The enormous man stuffed biscuit after biscuit into his mouth, not bothering to chew until he resembled a chipmunk.

"Disgusting," Lawrence muttered.

Conagher took a swig of coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. He'd finished his plate of ham and eggs several minutes before and had assumed the relaxed posture of a man who was comfortably full. "This comin' from a man who pees in a jar."

"That's a matter of convenience!"

"Just keep tellin' yerself that, mmkay?"

The server returned, her face twisted into a scowl, and dropped two cups on the table. Without waiting to see if the men needed anything else, she turned and stormed back into the kitchen. The swinging double doors rattled shut behind her.

"Pah. Restaurants these days." Doe gulped down half his drink in one long draw. "No good help anywhere, I tell you." He eyed Lawrence and Conagher. "You men finished? Sure didn't eat much."

"Actually, we should probably be on our way." The face of Lawrence's watch glinted as he checked the time. "We were hopin' you'd be able to point us to some of the others."

Egg yolk dripped off Doe's fork. "What made you think I'd do that?"

"What? You- you said you knew where they are! You said-"

"I said that?"

A scream died in Lawrence's throat. He refused to lose his cool, especially not in a crowded diner. "Yes. You did."

"Well, lucky for you, I do happen to know where DeGroot's holed up. Got himself a job for one of those hoity-toity companies downtown, doing God-knows-what. If I remember right, he takes his lunch around two. We can meet him there."

Some of the tightness in Lawrence's chest loosened. "So you know where to find him?"

"Course I do. I'm a man of my word."

"What about any of the others?" Conagher dropped another sugar cube into his coffee. "I reckon we're gonna run into a dead end eventually, if we're relying on old leads and hearsay."

To Lawrence's horror, Doe picked up his now-empty plate and began to lick the remnants of egg yolk and hash brown grease. In between noisy slurps, he replied, "Never said DeGroot was the only one I've been talking to. I can point you to a couple others."

Conagher frowned. How had Doe managed to stay in contact with the Reds when the rest of them hadn't? "Who else, then?"

Before Doe could reply, something crashed outside the diner, followed by the unmistakable sound of rapid gunfire. Screams erupted from inside as diners flung themselves beneath tables and wait staff sprinted to shut the doors. A stray bullet struck one of the windows and lodged there, surrounded by a spider web of fine cracks.

The four men just stared. Unless they were mistaken, a very familiar figure was galloping down the sidewalk across the street with three gunmen on his heels. Shots rang out again. The figure ducked into an alleyway as bullets scored the concrete buildings around him. Once his followers stopped to reload, the man poked his head out from around the corner and, seeing the coast was temporarily clear, scrambled back onto the sidewalk and took off again. Lawrence squinted.

"Is that-"

"Oh hey." Doe licked his spoon and set it on the plate. "There's one of 'em right now."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> REVENGE OF MONDO-CHAPTER.

Just kidding. The chapters will probably get longer as I go on, now that more and more of the mercs are coming around.

I'm sure any writer can relate, but research for this story has given me a browsing history that will probably land me on some kind of federal watch list. If I disappear, it's probably because someone's taken me in for questioning.

That said, hope you enjoyed! As always, I appreciate all the reviews. To all my U.S. readers, I hope your Thanksgiving was wonderful and full of delicious things. Mine sure was.

See you next week!


	6. Chapter 6

Niklas cursed and pressed a hand to his chest. The sound of thundering footsteps and furious screams trailed off as Cabrone's thugs passed by the alley where the doctor crouched and fought to regain his breath. Luckily the hired guns weren't the best shots, but that last bullet had come dangerously close to nicking Niklas's right lung.

He glanced around, relieved to find that he was alone in the alley. Crumbling red bricks surrounded him on both sides, along with the stench of several overflowing Dumpsters and what was left of a pigeon that looked like it had come a little too close to a stray cat. Niklas frowned. He liked birds.

A sudden throbbing in the doctor's chest made him wince. He leaned his head back against the brick and took a long, steadying breath. With trembling fingers, he pulled at the collar of his coat, unbuttoning it to the middle of his chest to reveal the bloodstained cotton shirt beneath. They'd gotten him more than once, it seemed.

"I think I saw 'im go down 'ere."

The voice came from the alley entrance and froze the blood in Niklas's veins. The doctor pressed himself against the wall, as if he could make himself thin enough to disappear along it. A Dumpster provided a little bit of cover, though if someone walked more than twenty or thirty feet down the alley he'd be in full view. And here he was without a weapon, without anywhere to run. Niklas whispered another curse. Even though he didn't make many of them, stupid mistakes were going to be the death of him. Literally this time, it seemed.

"You sure?"

"No, but I don't think we're gonna catch up with 'im by now if he's anywhere else, mate. Let's have a look."

The footsteps grew closer. Niklas tensed. Despite the pain in his chest, a slow grin spread across his face as he steadied himself for one last-ditch sprint toward the alley entrance. From there, he could possibly make it back to the safety of his laboratory, unless Cabrone's men had already raided it. It seemed impossible.

Niklas's smile widened. And what was more fun than impossible odds and being outmatched ten-to-one? He'd spent years all-but-weaponless with trained murderers, and he'd come out of it alright every time. Maybe - just maybe - luck was on his side this time, too. His eyes scanned the ground until they fell on a discarded beer bottle a few feet away. The doctor picked it up. It wasn't a bone saw or an eleven-inch hypodermic needle, but it would do.

The only problem was the feeling of the metal slug imbedded just below the doctor's collarbone. It was more than a little distracting, and it was going to hurt like hell when he dug it out later. Niklas took a deep breath. He'd worry about that kind of thing later. Just then, all that mattered was running. And if that didn't work, he'd focus on taking as many of Cabrone's men down with him.

But before he could move, a head popped around the Dumpster.

"Well lookie here! Found 'im!"

Niklas stared, open-mouthed, at the man in front of him. "Herr… Herr Mundy?"

"In the flesh, mate."

"Well I'll be." Conagher strolled out from behind his Australian friend and propped an arm against the wall, a wide grin plastered across his face. "How ya been, Doc?"

For the first time in his life, Niklas felt his brain grinding to a sudden halt. Just then, confronting Cabrone's gunmen would have been less confusing for the man. "Vat are you doing here? How did you find me?"

"Ah, that part was pretty easy, actually." Conagher jerked his head in the direction of the alley entrance. "Yer friends just about blew the building we was eatin' in to shreds."

Niklas snorted. "Zey are not my friends, Herr Conagher."

"Y'never did understand sarcasm, mate." Lawrence clapped a hand on the doctor's shoulder. "But we're getting' the old gang back together. One last big fight. And we can't do it without a doctor watchin' our backs."

"I…" Niklas's voice trailed off as he took one long look at Lawrence, then turned to stare at Conagher. As much as he enjoyed the thrill of an autopsy, rejoining Redmond Mann's team of mercenaries had its perks. No more paying men to lug half-rotted corpses to that tiny laboratory, cutting them open and selling their parts in secret. Redmond Mann had allowed – encouraged, even – Niklas to experiment. To push himself until he plowed through a discovery. That kind of work environment had led to the doctor's crowning achievement: the respawn chip. And the übergun after it. Now, with years of research under his belt, there was no telling what he could create.

A voice boomed out from the street. "Look down there, Monty. He has to be around here somewhere."

"Looks like your friends are back." Lawrence frowned, his voice low. "What'd you do to make 'em so testy, anyway?"

"Zey are Eddie Cabrone's men," Niklas whispered back, scooting against the wall once again. "I, ah, may have killed him."

Conagher slipped past the Dumpster so he stood next to Niklas. "Eddie Cabrone, as in the head of the Cabrone family? You killed a mob boss?"

"Accidentally!"

The sound of aluminum scattering across concrete came from the alley's entrance. A muffled string of curses were next. "Ridiculous, is what this is."

Conagher sighed. "You think they're gonna kill ya, Doc?"

"Zey vil certainly try." Niklas glanced down at the wound in his chest. The bleeding was hidden by his thick pea coat, but he could still feel blood oozing down his stomach. Cleaning the inside of the coat was not going to be fun, when it was all over.

"Well, we can't have that, now can we?" The Texan made a face, then shifted and stepped out from behind the Dumpster. Lawrence was a step behind him. "Howdy, friend. How goes it?"

The look the man gave Lawrence and Conagher made it plain he was less than impressed at their appearance. He was still far enough toward the street that Niklas was out of view. "What're you two doi- no, I don't want to know. You seen a tall guy in a lab coat?"

Conagher nodded and moved forward until only a few feet . "Sure have. He's hiding back here. Need a word with him?"

Within seconds, the gunman had closed the gap between them and jammed a handgun against the Texan's chest. "Thanks for the help. Now I need you and your, er, friend to leave nice and quiet-like. That way there's no trouble for any of us."

"Fraid I can't do that." Conagher's hand shot beneath his jacket coat.

A muffled gunshot echoed off the alley's high walls. Lawrence flung himself sideways, landing hard on one elbow. The rest of him wound up on a trash bag full of of half-rotted food. It burst under him, instantly soaking his clothes in something that smelled like rotten eggs and cat pee.

But Lawrence ignored all that. He clambered to his feet, ignoring the stabbing pain in his arm and hurrying toward his former coworker. A few feet away, Conagher half-slouched over the gunman, who had dropped to his knees.

Niklas was right on Lawrence's heels, the doctor's boots squealing against the concrete as the pair stumbled past an overturned trash can to reach their friend. As Lawrence reached the Texan, he could see the glint of a pistol clenched in Conagher's fist.

"Sorry, friend." Conagher released the gunman's shoulder, allowing him to fall back into the muck. Blood pooled from a hole in the gunman's chest, and the smell of iron quickly mingled with the other various odors in the alley. With a look of distaste, Conagher turned to Niklas. "You feel like savin' him?"

The doctor shook his head.

Lawrence breathed a sigh of relief. "For a second there mate, I thought-"

"Dyin' might be a lot easier these days, but he still wasn't near as fast as me." Conagher nudged at the gunman's corpse, then, with a resigned sigh, reached down and grabbed the man's arms. Grunting, he hoisted the man's upper body up. "Help me."

Lawrence bent down and grabbed the corpse's legs, biting back a groan as his elbow throbbed. The movement filled his nostrils with the smell of putrid garbage water, and he forced back a heave. With any luck, Conagher would let him clean up back at his apartment.

Between the two of them, the men managed to shuffle sideways a few steps and swing the gunman's body into the nearest Dumpster. As he swung the top lid shut, Conagher glanced back at the doctor. "I reckon you'd be crazy to refuse us now. Mob's already after you for killin' Cabrone. Now that body count's doubled, and I have a feeling chuckles's friend will be back here to see where his buddy went any minute now."

The doctor sighed. "I believe you are correct, Herr Conagher." His eyes trailed to Lawrence. The Australian was gingerly inspecting his elbow, wincing as his fingers brushed his skin. A purplish bruise had already begun to bloom along his arm. "Do you vant me to take a look at that?"

"Dunno what you can do about it, Doc. Not like we're back at Teufort, with all your-" Lawrence's voice was cut short as Niklas grabbed him by the arm. The doctor's fingers dug into his arm, and he bit back a yelp.

"I can fix this," Niklas muttered. "Zey didn't confiscate _everything_."

"How about we wait until we're back at the apartment?" Conagher glanced toward the brightly-lit street behind them. "Y'think you can last that long, Mundy?"

The Australian nodded and, still cradling his injured arm in the other, limped his way back toward the street. Even if the doctor couldn't fix his arm right off, a hot shower sounded glorious just then. The liquid garbage had dried on his skin, giving him a yellowish-brown sheen and making the smell even worse. Lawrence's stomach churned.

The three men stepped into the street, blinking in the sudden sunlight. Sirens wailed around the block, mingled with authoritative shouts that Conagher assumed belonged to at least a dozen police officers.

"We'll need to go around the block. That should keep us from being noti-"

"Doctor? Doctooooooooooor!" The voice that came from just up the street was loud enough to make pedestrians stop and stare. It was followed by the sound of thunderous footsteps and a gleeful shriek that, in Conagher's opinion, rivaled the noise of a tornado siren.

Niklas's eyes widened. "Mein Gott. Is that-"

Before he could finish, Ivan plowed into the doctor, wrapping the taller man in a hug so strong it lifted Niklas off his feet. Ivan grinned from ear to ear as he swung the doctor back and forth in his arms. "Ivan thought Doctor gone forever!"

Niklas squeaked. There was no room in his lungs for anything else, and not much room in his ears for anything other than the constant stream of murmured promises of eternal devotion from the man holding him a good six inches off the ground. He barely noticed as Doe slid into place beside the others.

"Good! You found him!" Doe nodded in Niklas's direction. "We followed the others for a good quarter mile before they stopped looking for the doc." A pause, then, "God, man, are you _crying_?"

"Ivan just so happy. Is like fairytale ending."

"Put him down." Conagher glared at Ivan until the enormous man dropped his now blue-faced friend. Niklas gasped for breath, steadying himself on the Texan's shoulder. As much as Conagher hated the idea of the former mercenaries staying another night in his apartment, it was unavoidable now. Plus he had a feeling it would be a good idea to stow the pistol – now tucked safely back in his jacket's inside pocket – somewhere safe, at least until they made it back to the fort. "Come on. Let's go."

(-)

"I'm tellin' ya, doc, you don't have to worry about it. It's fi- ah!" Lawrence winced as Niklas's fingers dug into his elbow. In the hour or so since they'd arrived at Conagher's apartment, the bruise had changed from light purple to almost black. It might have been a better idea to let the doctor look at it right off, but nothing – not even the fact that his elbow was suddenly roughly the size of a grapefruit – had stopped Lawrence from jumping in the shower and scrubbing himself clean. Wearing the cleanest pair of flannel pajamas he could find in his van, he sat cross-legged in Conagher's living room floor, his injured arm lifted slightly so Niklas could have a look.

"I would hardly call a posterior fracture of the olecranon 'fine,' Herr Mundy."

"And what does that mean, in English?"

The doctor laid a finger on the rounded bone at the end of Lawrence's elbow. Even the light touch was enough to make the Australian flinch. "You fractured zis bone, right here."

Niklas leaned back and undid the buttons on his pea coat.

"Er, doc, I know I'm injured and all, but is that a bullet hole in your chest?"

"It _vas_ a bullet hole, freund."

"But how-"

"I'll explain shortly." The doctor removed a cigarette case from his pea coat's inside pocket and tossed the coat onto the couch. The blood stains hadn't been as bad as he'd anticipated; a good dry cleaning would have the coat as good as new. Ivan grabbed the coat and snuggled it to his chin. Ever since they had arrived at Conagher's apartment, Ivan hadn't let Niklas out of his sight. "For now, let's get zis fixed."

He flipped the cigarette case open, revealing a tiny device that resembled a pen. When he clicked one end, a light red glow emitted from the other. Lawrence raised his eyebrows. "That color looks awfully familiar, mate."

Niklas pulled Lawrence's arm closer and pressed the end of the device against his skin. "It is ze uber technology, but to a smaller degree."

"I thought they took all that from you when the war ended," Lawrence said.

With his free hand, Niklas smoothed his hair. He looked at Lawrence, a smirk on his lips. "As I said before, zey could not confiscate everything. I invented ze uber. I know how it works. All it took was a little, ah, ingenuity to make it work again."

The pressure in Lawrence's elbow suddenly lessened. When he looked at his arm, the enormous lump had disappeared.

"And that's how, with the bullet-"

"Yes." The doctor dropped Lawrence's arm and patted himself on the chest. "Except zis is internal, like ze original uber procedure. Zey ordered me to remove ze parts from you, but zey forgot to do the same to me."

"So you're still invincible." Conagher leaned in the doorway, silhouetted in the light of the kitchen. "That would have been nice to know before I put my life on the line for you earlier."

Niklas shrugged and tucked the uber-pen into his pants pocket. "Ze technology had to be modified for me to pass ze exit inspection. It's not as strong as before. I can heal if I have enough time, but zere is no uber, no respawn, nothing like that."

Lawrence flexed his arm and smiled. Good as new.

"So ven do ve head back to Teufort? I have a few things I vould like to retrieve from my laboratory."

Conagher cast one last, worried glance into the kitchen, then made his way to the living room and dropped onto the sofa next to Ivan. There wasn't much left in the cabinets for Doe to scavenge, anyway.

"We need to be on our way by Friday," Lawrence said. "But we still need to find the others. Doe was supposed to take us to DeGroot today, but then we all got… distracted."

"I'll still take y'to him!" Doe called from the kitchen. "God, Conagher, would it _kill_ you to buy something other than white bread?" His shout was followed by a crash that faded into the sound of tinkling glass. Conagher winced. At this rate, he wouldn't have any dishes left by the time Doe was finished in there.

"When can we go see DeGroot?" Lawrence stretched out on the floor, propping his upper half up with his elbows. "It needs to be as soon as possible."

Doe emerged from the kitchen, half of a triple-decker sandwich precariously balanced on one of Conagher's plates. The other half of the sandwich was jammed in his mouth, muffling his words. "I could take y'there first thing in the morning. Unless y'plan on whining to me about it the rest of the night. I swear, the downtime's turned you all soft. Like... fluffy kittens on feather pillows, soft."

"It's a plan, then, mates." Lawrence grinned. They had four more men to find, and at the rate they were going, making it to Tuefort by the end of the week wouldn't be a problem. "We're halfway there."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: I absolutely _cannot_ wait to share the Demoman's new 'career' with you guys. It just might be my favorite one yet.

Also, the amount of fun I'm having writing this is a testament to the awesome source material - and you, the even-awesomer reader. Thanks so much for taking the time to read through this! See you next week!


	7. Chapter 7

"I want them here _now_, dammit! I can't win a war without soldiers!" The withered man's words were almost lost amid a cacophany of beeps and whirring machinery. His eyes glittered in the low red light. "Blutarch could be on us any minute!"

"You have to be patient, pet. They are coming."

Redmond Mann made a noise in the back of his throat. "You'be been telling me the same thing for a month now. How long do I have to wait before your promises pan out, Helen?"

The Announcer smoothed the front of her purple dress. Unlike the man in the hospital bed in front of her, the semi-darkness made her look less frail and more dangerous, like a predator lurking in the shadows. "Mister Mundy has been in contact with Miss Pauling. He has located four of your mercenaries so far. They are all on board to come back to Teufort at the beginning of next week."

An IV next to Redmond's bed beeped. The old man took a deep breath as the latest round of medication hit his veins. "This is all your fault, you know. If you hadn't given me false information-"

"All my informants said the same thing," Helen snapped. "Blutarch did everything he could to make his death seem legitimate. He even submitted paperwork for his mercenaries' release. No one knew they never left. Not even me."

"Which says a lot about your ability to gather vital information." Redmond's voice dripped venom. "As many times as I've been declared dead, I would think you'd know how to tell the real deal by now. Or is it time to replace you, as well?"

Helen leapt to her feet so fast her chair toppled backward, landing on the carpet floor with a muffled thump. With one last, murderous look in Redmond's direction, she stormed out of the man's bedroom and into the hall.

Outside, Miss Pauling hovered a few feet from Redmond's door, a clipboard clutched to her chest.

"So, um... did it go okay?"

"If that man fires me, it will be the last decision he ever makes." Helen pushed past her assistant and strode toward the foyer. Miss Pauling hurried to catch up. "There's nothing more intolerable than a man who thinks he runs the show."

Miss Pauling said nothing, though she picked up her pace enough to beat Helen to the front door and hold it open.

"Have you heard any more from the Australian? Or his cohorts?" Helen took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the arthritic pulsing in her knees. "God help you if you're withholding any news from me."

"Of course not! You're the first person I'd tell!" Miss Pauling opened the passenger side door of a black Rolls Royce parked at the bottom of the stairs. Once Helen was inside, Miss Pauling scurried to the driver's side and hopped in. "Why would I keep anything from you?"

"Because in this business, the only person you can trust is yourself, and sometimes you can't even be sure of that." Helen tugged the visor down and examined her makeup in the mirror. "If Redmond Mann knew we were also in business with his brother, heads would roll. Preferably ours, I would think. Personally, I'm glad it's almost over. I'm sick of those two screaming orders at me like I'm some kind of serving girl."

Miss Pauling carefully guided the car onto a deserted stretch of dirt road, barely distinguishable from the reddish-brown earth around it. She'd made the drive to and from Redmond Mann's mansion that she knew it by heart. Gone were the days when she needed a map just to get from one end of the Manns' property to the other.

But that, too, would be coming to an end soon, she supposed. No more interviews with half-crazed warmen who knew more about assembling guns and pressure points than intelligent conversation. No more spending hours at a time watching teams of mercenaries fling themselves at each other, only to die and come back over and over again.

Maybe this time she could get a normal job. Something with a desk, and a name plate. Like at a library. Miss Pauling smiled. She'd like that.

"Mark my words, Pauling. This time will be very different from the last. Redmond might have had the foresight to be a little more choosy with his men, but two years of training have evened the odds." Helen took a deep breath. "This time those men will be playing for keeps."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> Guys, I am so so so sorry. The bug that's been making its way through my newsroom decided it was my turn, and I've spent the last week in a medicine-induced fog. I started feeling better yesterday, but I got a call to investigate one of the most horrific animal abuse cases I've ever encountered, and it's being ignored by the sheriff's office, and dealing with that has left me just drained, emotionally and physically. It was all I could do to churn out this filler.

You'll get the Demoman chapter next week, I promise. Thanks for bearing with me.


	8. Chapter 7v2

"Mister DeGroot, we've got a situation out back."

Tavish DeGroot straightened his tie and stood, his eyes on the twenty-something girl who had barged into his office. His leather office chair squealed against the rough wooden floor as he shoved it back against the wall. "Wit is it?"

The girl – one of the new hires, DeGroot realized; her name was Sandy, or something similar to it – tugged at her long ponytail, but her face was calm. "Frank cut two guys off and sent 'em out. They cornered him when he went out back for a smoke. And I think one…" Her voice broke. "I think one of them has a gun."

"Ah." DeGroot paused long enough to wrap his hand around the handle of a long, spiraled walking stick. "That does sound a wee bit problematic."

Sandy held the door open as DeGroot left his office. The Scotsman slid past her, emerging in the long, dim hallway that divided his restaurant from a string of offices and the building's break room. He pressed a hand to his left eye socket and fought the urge to grind his knuckles in – the glass eye he wore those days tended to itch something terrible, and that evening was no exception.

By the time they'd reached the kitchens, DeGroot could hear loud, ominous shouts coming from the back alley. He frowned. With any luck, no one had called the police yet – Tavish Tavern tended to deal with its own troublemakers, for more than one reason.

A heavy iron door stood at the far end of the kitchen, one side studded with more locks than most people have in entire houses. DeGroot swung the door open with his free hand and took a deep breath of the cold night air that blasted his face.

Two youngish men – if their expensive hairdos, popped collars and the fraternity symbols on their over shirts were any indication, they were students from the college on the other side of town – stood with their backs to the door. In front of them was Frank, his fists raised and his chin-length hair disheveled. One side of his face was scuffed, as if they'd already shoved him face first against the brick wall.

"What seems t'be the problem here, lads?" DeGroot's fingers tightened around the walking stick's canvas top.

The bigger guy, a charmer with a buzz cut and an enormous tattoo trailing down one bicep, swung. A crack sounded through the alley as his fist connected with Frank's head, followed by a sharp gasp from Sandy. The bartender dropped to the ground, his chin against his chest.

With his free hand, DeGroot grabbed Sandy's shoulder and steered her inside.

"Get Scott 'n Jeff and bring 'em out here," he hissed, then took another step toward the men. "Let me ask y'again. What's the problem?"

This time, the two men turned to face DeGroot. Now that he could see their faces, DeGroot knew he'd been right. He'd seen them before, strutting around the bar like oversized peacocks and flirting with any girl they could find. More than once he'd overheard them bragging about their latest frat party or the way they'd "totally bombed that last test."

It was enough to make anyone sick. As far as DeGroot was concerned, no one deserved to brag unless they'd done something useful, like calculate the exact amount of potassium chloride needed to produce an exothermic reaction in less than sixty seconds. While being shot at.

The big one's face twisted into a sneer. He let loose a string of curses in DeGroot's

direction that ended with "we're busy."

"Aye, but yer busy with one of me employees." The walking stick clicked against the

ground as DeGroot moved closer.

"And what are you gonna do about it, old man?"

DeGroot smiled. "Ah'd hoped ye'd ask me that."

(-)

"Ivan can borrow Engineer's toothbrush?"

"No," Conagher snapped.

"But-"

"No!" Conagher slammed his bedroom door shut. With a scowl, he bent and yanked off his work boots, flinging them toward the wall. One more night like this and he was liable to spend the night in the building's lobby. Anything would be better for his sanity than being stuck in a six hundred-square-foot apartment with those four men.

The room, much like the numerous workrooms Conagher had occupied in his life, was disheveled, with a pile of dirty clothes dominating one corner and bits of gutted electronics in another. A television stood on a TV tray opposite the unmade twin-sized bed, its screen fuzzily jumping between two different soap operas.

Conagher dropped onto the bed, glancing at the window and the scrubby house plant that sat on its sill. Sighing, he grabbed a half-full bottle of water from his bedside table, unscrewed it, and tipped it into the plant's pot. The television buzzed a static lullaby, barely audible over the sounds of a thousand cars crawling down the street below.

The Texan picked up the TV remote and pressed a button, allowing the television to settle on one channel. On the screen, a blond woman with too-bright white teeth smiled at the camera, her perfectly-sculpted hair glinting in the bright studio lights.

"Our top story tonight, a bar fight at a local tavern left two men in critical condition." Her face shifted into carefully sculpted concern. "It appeared the men who were injured were the ones who instigated the fight, according to a report from Police Captain Lou Hobbs. They were rushed to the hospital with what appeared to be injuries from an explosive device used by the bar owner, Tavish DeGroot. DeGroot was arrested and booked into the city jail shortly before ten."

Congaher's jaw dropped. DeGroot's mug shot glared at the audience, his left eye squinted shut like a mocking wink. In the back of Conagher's mind, he marveled at the sight of the Demoman's entire, eyepatch-less face.

The news cast cut to a shot of a grubby building, the words "Tavish Tavern" spelled above its door in red neon. Yellow tape surrounded it on three sides, disappearing into the alley that bordered the bar on one end. A harried-looking reporter stood a few feet away from the tape line, a microphone at his lips.

"Diane, this was the scene of what police are calling one of the strangest cases of self-defense they've ever dealt with," he said, glancing toward the bar as an officer ducked under the tape and disappeared inside. "According to witness accounts, two men who have not yet been identified were kicked out of the bar at approximately nine p.m. and began harassing a bartender on his smoke break in the alley you see behind me. The explosion is said to have occurred after the tavern's owner confronted the two men."

The camera panned sideways, giving the audience a full view of the darkened alley.

"Now, police aren't allowing anyone inside, but one officer, speaking under the condition of anonymity, said the explosion blasted away part of the building next door and destroyed…"

Conagher didn't hear the rest of the news cast. The bed springs squealed in protest as he vaulted to his feet and crossed the room in two long strides. As he threw the bedroom door open, he bent and grabbed his boots, half-hopping in an attempt to pull them on and hurry down the hall at the same time.

In the living room, Lawrence had claimed a few feet of carpet near Conagher's front door. He lay curled in a ball, burrowed beneath a moth-eaten blanket brought up from his van and snoring softly.

"I found- gah!" Conagher stumbled over Lawrence's sleeping form. He caught himself on the wall. Lawrence yelped and sat up, hands fumbling for a weapon that wasn't there.

"What the he-"

"I found DeGroot!" Conagher pulled at the back of one boot so his heel settled inside. "He was on TV! He's been arrested!"

Lawrence ran a hand over his face, scrubbing away the fog of an interrupted sleep. "What? I thought Doe said he was some fancy-pants business owner."

"I did?" Doe looked up from his whispered argument with Ivan over who got to sleep on the couch. "I mean, of course I did!"

The realization of what Conagher had said settled in Lawrence's mind. The Australian's hands balled into fists. How was he supposed to recruit someone if they were in jail? "What was that idiot up to, that landed him in the clink?"

"…I think he blew up a building. And a couple of people."

Lawrence stared at his friend. "Ah. Well then."

Conagher grinned. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I 'ope so."

(-)

The cell reeked of vomit and sweat, but at least DeGroot didn't have to share it with anyone. He sprawled across the bench, one arm cradled in the other, and tried to look less than pleased with himself. Sure, his stunt behind the bar had earned him a second-degree burn across one arm and part of chest, but the college kids had gotten off much, much worse.

And they'd deserved it, too. Anyone could see that.

Well, anyone except the police, apparently.

DeGroot glanced down at the bandage on his arm. Apparently he'd misjudged the amount of padding the walking stick pommel had needed to shield his own parts from the blast. But now he knew better, and he'd fix it the next time. Even if 'next time' meant ten to fifteen years from then, if his lawyer's hysterics had been any indication.

That thought wiped the smile off of DeGroot's face. Sure, mistake number one had been loading a hollowed-out cane with enough explosives to level a small building and forgetting how much padding he needed to keep himself safe. But mistake number two had definitely been using it in the middle of a crowded city block, right next to his very own bar, no less. He'd already been in touch with his lawyer, and as far as he could tell, he'd be paying for pain and suffering for decades to come. He could have dealt with those bampots with his own fists, but no. He had to show off.

"Psst."

The noise came from over DeGroot's shoulder – and, if he wasn't mistaken, from the tiny barred window near the ceiling.

"I don't reckon we got the right one one." A whispered voice drifted through the window.

"I dunno. Just yell up there 'n see."

The Scotsman frowned and stood. He glanced toward the front of the cell to make sure no one was paying attention, then sidled to the back wall and leaned against it. "Aye?"

For one long moment, no one replied, and DeGroot began to wonder if he'd overheard part of a conversation that didn't have anything to do with him. He straightened and turned back toward the bench.

"DeGroot?"

He froze in mid-step. Unless he was going crazy, he recognized that voice. "Aye?"

"I told you it was the right one!"

"Sniper?"

"In the flesh, mate. With our good buddy Conagher."

"Wit…" DeGroot's voice trailed off as an officer strolled by the cell front.

"Heard you was in the clink. Thought we'd stop by and say howdy." There was a smile in Conagher's voice.

Once the hallway in front of his cell was clear, DeGroot spoke. "Is that so?"

"Naw." Conagher chuckled. "We're bustin' y'all out of here."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> And here it is, finally. Thanks, everyone, for being so understanding last week. It was definitely not the best one of my life.

I have a soft spot for Demoman. I can't play the class to save my life, but he's my husband's favorite, and he actually cosplays Demo at conventions a couple times a year. If you ever see a Pyro and Demoman running around together at cons in the American Midwest, it just might be us. :D

To answer a question from Faux Promises, I'm a reporter. Usually I make it a point to not get emotionally invested in my work, but I'm very passionate about animal welfare, and in this case it was such a nasty situation that I threw a fit until it got statewide attention. It's not over yet, but hopefully we've made some headway in it.


	9. Chapter 8

Niklas fought the urge to scream as he tightened an enormous red bow around the blond wig now attached to his head. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why he'd agreed to this. Surely there were better ways to attract attention.

And the floral-print dress Conagher had forced him into was about ten inches too short. The frigid breezes whispering through the alley were hell on his thighs.

Beside him, Ivan crouched against the wall and tugged at the strings of the black hoodie he wore. He'd pulled the hood over his head and was in the process of tightening it until only his nose and tiny, dark eyes were visible.

"Is this good? Ivan not see much this way."

"Ja, Herr Kozlov. It is good. You just need to look ze part, is all." A gust of wind caught the dress's hem and sent it billowing upward. Niklas pressed his fists against his legs. If he wasn't careful, there'd be a second arrest that night – one for indecent exposure. The doctor made an angry noise in his throat.

"Don't be mad. Doctor looks very pretty. Blue dress brings out eyes-"

"_Halt die Klappe_," Niklas snapped.

"But-"

"Nein." Niklas silenced any of Ivan's further protests with a glare. He never should have gone through with Conagher's crazy plan to free DeGroot from prison. Or at the very least, he should have insisted on playing a _male_ role in the scheme.

Instead he found himself in a dark alley with a bear-man, three-inch heels, and enough makeup to smother a small animal. In all the years he'd spent with the mercenaries, none of their half-crazed ideas had amounted to this.

_Just pretend it is another procedure_, he thought. _Like removing a kidney, or attaching batteries to a heart. Simple._

A shadow appeared in the alley's entrance. Even in the dark, Niklas could see the grin on Doe's face. "They said they're ready. Commence 'Operation Miss Fancy Pants' in thirty seconds."

"Operation what?"

Doe's smile widened. "Y'like it? I came up with it myself."

Niklas sighed. "Ja, Herr Doe. It's… perfect."

"Oh, and don't forget your purse." Doe tossed a floral-print bag toward the doctor. "We filled it with rocks. So it feels all authentic-like. All pretty ladies carry rocks in their purses."

Niklas didn't even bother replying. He set his eyes forward, stolidly marching past Doe and into the street. The high heels made his steps wobbly, but he forced himself to hobble along the sidewalk and toward the police department's entrance about half a block down. Few people glanced his way, and for that the doctor was grateful. At least they were pulling this stunt at night, when no one could see his stubble or the knobbly knees that peeked out from below the dress every time he took a step.

_Count to thirty_, he thought.

He held the purse at his side, loosely enough that Ivan would be able to grab it without difficulty. Doe hadn't been joking about weighing it down – the stupid thing had to weigh at least ten pounds, and the rocks inside it grated together like nails on a chalkboard.

But again, it could be worse. Doe could have filled it with ten pounds of something that explodes on impact. Niklas wouldn't have put it past him.

At twenty-nine, Niklas caught the sound of heavy footsteps rapidly approaching him. Right on time, too – the police department was only a few feet away. Niklas loosened his grip on the purse and scanned the front of the building. Sure enough, a couple of officers were climbing the short set of steps that led to the department's front door. For a moment, Niklas allowed himself to appreciate Conagher and Lawrence's planning skills. It was a stroke of genius to coordinate the plan around a shift change.

A heavy shoulder collided with the doctor and nearly sent him sprawling on the sidewalk. Before he could react, sausage-sized fingers closed around the purse's handle and yanked it out of his grasp. Niklas barely had time to see Ivan's hulking form sprinting through the crowd, shoving people left and right like a champion linebacker in a football game.

_Alright, Niklas. Time to make use of those acting classes Mother insisted on._

Niklas took a deep breath and screeched in the highest falsetto he could manage – which, to his surprise, almost sounded like a woman's voice. He pointed down the sidewalk and shifted his weight from foot to foot for good measure.

"Zat… zat awful man! He stole my purse! Thief!" Niklas's voice broke on that last word, but he hoped it just added to the effect.

The officers looked back at Niklas, then at each other. Niklas took a deep breath and shrieked louder. "Help me! Oh help, officers! Ze big man, ze one in ze black sweatshirt! He took my purse and ran zat way!"

To their credit, the two policemen didn't hesitate more than another couple seconds. They leaped off the steps and took off down the sidewalk, shouting at bystanders to get out of their way. Niklas stood there, hands dramatically poised at his mouth as he let out a last few helpless noises. Across the street, he saw Doe, half-hidden in the alley, turn around and whisper something into the darkness. Despite his irritation and embarrassment, the doctor smiled. He'd played his part well.

(-)

Inside his cell, DeGroot did his best to look disinterested as two officers argued in front of the barred doors. With the two guys who were supposed to relieve them off chasing a purse-snatcher, it left them stuck working past their designated shifts. Neither wanted to stick around, but they agreed they couldn't leave the building unless at least one person was inside to keep an eye on things.

Finally, the front door clanged open. Next came the sound of heavy boots on the tile floor, followed by the sound of a man loudly clearing his throat.

"Excuse me! I believe I am having a heart attack! Hnnngh!"

The officers' heads snapped up. They darted toward the main room, leaving DeGroot with a hand clamped over his mouth to hide his grin. It was all he could do to keep his shoulders from trembling with silent laughter.

"I am dying, men!" There was a loud thump that, DeGroot assumed, meant Doe had collapsed on the floor. "Why must my heart work against me?"

"Call for an ambulance!"

"No!" Doe let out a heart-rending groan. "There's not time. Just stay with me in my final moments. Remember me, men, as a man who died with dignity- hnnnngh!"

Doe's screams – and the frantic noises of the officers trying to attend to him – masked the sound of a grinder buzzing against the cell window. The window was just low enough for DeGroot to see the top of Conagher's head as he held the grinder against the bars.

"It'll be a tight fit, but I reckon we'll get you through it," Conagher said through gritted teeth. Just then, he looked almost identical to the Engineer DeGroot remembered, with a pair of welding goggles protecting his eyes from the sparks shooting off the bars and his hair tucked beneath a hat to keep it out of the way. "Mundy, if y'don't mind, check the street and make sure we're still in the clear."

"Just did, mate. Ivan just rounded the corner a few blocks down. They're still tryin' t'catch him."

One bar came loose and clattered to the ground. Lawrence and Conagher winced in unison – the last thing they needed was more noise. A shower of sparks fell around the pair as Conagher started on the second bar.

DeGroot had already pushed the bench up to the window, scooting it along the floor as quietly as possible. Luckily, Doe hadn't stopped his endless stream of agonized screams and declarations that he was mere moments from death's door. As far as DeGroot could tell, the officers couldn't hear a thing that was going on in the cells.

Another clang. Two more bars to go. Conagher wiped at his forehead with the back of a hand – the grinder had made the iron bars red hot, and a lot of that heat was transferring to him, too.

DeGroot paced the cell, hands in his pockets. He could still hear Doe's moans, but one of the officers had called for an ambulance, and the other was trying to convince Doe to move to one of the benches in the main foyer. It would be a matter of seconds before any paramedics realized their patient was not, in fact, in peril.

Just as Doe stopped to take a breath, the third bar fell. The noise might as well have been a gunshot, as loud at it sounded inside the tiny jail cell.

"What was that?"

"I don't know. Go make sure everything's alright in back. I'm gonna run to the dispatch room and see where that ambulance is." The officer raised his voice. "Sir. Sir! I'll be right back, okay? The ambulance is on its way, and I'm going to check to see where it is."

DeGroot froze, his good eye wide, as he heard a set of footsteps approaching down the hall. He glanced back at the window, briefly considering trying to stand in front of it so the officer couldn't see that it was suddenly missing all but one of its bars. But it was set too high, and unless he stood there with both hands side by side in the air, there was no hiding it. Finally, the Scotsman settled for sitting on the bench, his face twisted into as innocent an expression as possible.

The officer appeared at the door. It barely took him a second to notice the window, and it took him even less time to yank the cell door open and start inside, hand on his gun.

"What the-"

The officer's words were cut short with a deafening clang, brought about by a glass paperweight that suddenly made contact with the back of his skull. Doe stood behind him, the paperweight still clenched in his fist. DeGroot's jaw dropped open.

"What'd ye-"

As if on cue, the window's last bar dropped. Conagher pulled himself up by the sill and peered inside. His stomach sank when he saw the officer, face down on the floor with an enormous purple bruise spreading across the back of his head. He'd hoped they would manage this as quietly as possible - and he didn't much care for committing a felony trying to spring his friend, either. "Uh, is everything okay?"

"Just shut up and get him out the window, will you? I gotta go pretend to die again." Doe turned and darted back down the hallway, leaving Conagher to drop to the ground and gesture for Lawrence to help catch their friend when he made it through.

"Can you pull yourself up, mate?"

"'course ah can! Ah'm not some noodle-armed weakling!" DeGroot braced his hands on the outside of the window and – with some difficulty – pulled himself up so his upper body was hanging out. "Just catch me. Ah don't fancy crackin me head."

Lawrence and Conagher took hold of DeGroot by his armpits and pulled him out of the window, stepping back so DeGroot could right himself on the street.

Inside, Doe made it back to the foyer just in time to meet the second officer as he returned from dispatch's office. Doe's face was flushed, but he had a feeling that wasn't fooling the policeman, whose eyes narrowed as he saw Doe standing when, as far as he knew, just moments before the man had been dying.

"You look like you're feeling better."

"I… ah… it's a miracle!" Doe spread his arms and smiled widely. When the officer's expression didn't change, Doe took a deep breath, stepped forward, and aimed a nasty kick at the man's groin. It connected, and the man dropped to his knees.

He stepped around the officer and opened the door. "Sorry, man. But you know how it goes." At that, Doe sprinted out the door and down the street.

(-)

The apartment was filled with roaring laughter as the former mercenaries, half-drunk from adrenaline, rehashed DeGroot's prison escape.

"And then… and, and then," DeGroot pressed a hand against the couch to keep himself from toppling over, "this joker here," – he pointed at Doe – "bashes 'im over the head with a paperweight! Craziest thing I ever set me eyes on!"

Conagher stretched across the floor, leaning back on his elbows. "Speaking of eyes, when did you stop wearing an eyepatch?"

"Ah. About that." DeGroot coughed. "I been wearin' a glass eye. More professional, I think. It, ah, kind of flew out when the building went kablooey."

That caused another round of laughter.

"Why did yeh hit him, anyway, mate?" Lawrence raised an eyebrow.

"I was tired of dying. Hitting people was more fun. Plus, I'm pretty sure he was gonna shoot you."

The Australian chuckled from his position on the floor. "Naw, that was never an issue. The doc could've patched him up."

Ivan frowned. "Where is doctor?"

"I don't…" Conagher cursed. "We forgot to pick him up!"

"We have to find doctor! Ivan die of broken heart if we lose him again!"

Lawrence sighed. "Okay, everyone. Back in the van. We have a medic to find."

(-)

Niklas trudged down the street, his eyes locked on the pavement and his head full of the unpleasant things he'd like to do to his former coworkers. He couldn't believe they'd forgotten him. He'd waited for over an hour at the meeting point, and it wasn't until his legs had gone numb that he'd realized they weren't coming for him.

That meant walking back to Conagher's apartment, if he could remember where it was. His laboratory was more than a mile away, and there was no way he was going much further in the heels that now felt like red-hot vices around his feet.

At least it was late enough that the sidewalk was mainly empty.

"_Mon dieu_!" The silky voice came from just over Niklas's shoulder. "What is a _belle dame_ like you doing out by yourself, this late at night?"

That did it. Niklas spun and unleashed a stream of German curses that, he was sure, made his mother turn over in her grave. It wasn't until he saw the face of the person speaking to him that his voice trailed into stunned silence.

The tall, thin man's face was exposed, something Niklas was unaccustomed to seeing. But there was no mistaking it.

It was him.

"Docteur? What ze hell are you doing?"

(-)

Author's note: And THIS is why Demo was my favorite one to write. This chapter let me just go crazy with ridiculousness.

p.s. "Halt die Klappe" is "Shut up" in German, according to a couple of translation sites. I originally had it in English, but it made more sense for Medic to use his native language when upset. Let me know if I got it wrong. The French, if I translated it right, is "My God!" and "beautiful lady."

Hope you enjoyed! Everyone have a safe and all-around awesome holiday, regardless of what or whether you're celebrating. See you next week!


	10. Chapter 9

"So Monsieur Mann is calling everyone back?" Antoine leaned back in the leather recliner and ran a hand over his chin. Without his trademark mask, a smattering of stubble was apparent across the lower part of his face.

Niklas sat across from him, tugging impatiently at the tight collar of the shirt antoine had loaned him. It beat wearing the dress, but only barely. The doctor's chest was broader than the shirt allowed.

"_Ja_. Ze Sniper has been gathering us up. He says ve vill leave for Teufort at ze end of ze week."

For a moment, Antoine didn't reply. He leaned back in the chair and took a deep breath, running his hand through his close-cropped hair.

Niklas watched the former mercenary's movements, the beginnings of a frown creeping across his forehead. He'd thought it was a stroke of tremendous luck, running into Antoine in a city that housed nearly a million people. Even if the man had tried to hit on him.

As far as the doctor could tell, it appeared Antoine had fared better with 'normal' life than the rest of them. He lived in one of the nicer parts of town, in a single-story home that boasted a wrought-iron fence and an indoor pool. In the sitting room, a blond maid had taken antoine's coat and hurried off with orders to find the doctor something to wear. She'd returned within two minutes and presented Niklas with a shirt and a pair of flannel pants that hung several inches above his ankle. But they were warm and dry – and not a dress. That's all that mattered to Niklas just then.

The doctor couldn't see anything that indicated what Antoine did for a living. He was obviously well-off, if the soft leather furniture and expensive-looking paintings on the wall were any indication.

"Who has agreed so far?" Antoine's voice interrupted Niklas's thoughts.

"Vell, Herr Mundy started vith Ivan, and zen-"

"Use titles, monsieur. I never bothered learning your names."

"Ah. Of course." Niklas swallowed. He'd forgotten how much the former Spy's attitude grated on him. And how nervous it made him. "Sniper has found Heavy, Engineer, Soldier, ze Demoman, and, of course, me."

"Meaning Pyro, Scout and myself are all that are left."

"_Ja_."

"And how has Sniper been finding you?" Antoine crossed his long legs. His top foot bounced in time with the clock ticking on the mantel. "I didn't think you men were the type to keep in touch."

The leather squealed beneath Niklas as he shifted in his seat. "There vere a few leads. Ze rest, I assume, was luck."

"Indeed." Antoine's gaze settled on a spot somewhere above Niklas's head. "Almost as if it was fate, yes?"

Niklas's frown deepened. "I suppose you could say zat."

"I see." Antoine folded his hands in his lap. In the low light, the man's sharp silhouette reminded Niklas of a falcon. "And how did you end up walking down a busy street in a woman's dress? I don't remember that being a habit of yours."

"Herr DeGroo- ze Demoman was arrested." Niklas shrugged. "Zey needed a distraction to get him out."

"And you were that distraction?"

Niklas nodded.

"And they forgot you."

Another nod. "If you would let me use your phone, I can call for a cab-"

"That won't be necessary. I'll arrange transportation."

"Ah. Danke." Niklas eyed the man across from him. "So, Herr..."

"Antoine will do just fine, if we must use names."

"Of course. Herr Antoine. If you don't mind me asking, vat do you do now?" Niklas waved his hand in the air. "You seem quite... settled."

Antoine's dark eyes settled on the doctor once more. Niklas fought the urge to wince. "The world is full of thieves, Docteur. It was not difficult to, ah, _adapt_ the skills I mastered at Teufort to suit my needs."

A slow smile spread across Antoine's face. "After all, modern business is nothing but espionage and always, _always_ staying one step ahead of the competition. If some choose to label a certain business practice 'unethical' or even 'illegal,' then that's no fault of mine."

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Herr Antoine." And if Niklas did catch what Antoine was getting at, he wished he hadn't.

"It may be best if you do not." Antoine straightened the tie around his neck. Even at this hour, he was dressed as if he were headed to an important business meeting, or hosting a formal dinner. Niklas had to admit, even if Antoine was aggravating and terrifying at the same time, the man had class.

Abruptly, Antoine stood and dusted the back of his jacket. "If you're ready to leave, I'll escort you to the door. If you can provide the address, my driver will take you back to the others."

"You aren't coming with me?"

There was a moment that Antoine looked genuinely surprised at Niklas's question, but it quickly vanished beneath a mask of cool disdain. "Tell me, Docteur, what you expect to happen when you set foot in that hellhole again. Will it be just like the old days? All blazing glory and last-minute saves?"

Antoine continued before Niklas could reply. "I, for one, have no desire to return to an existence where a bullet or rocket or wall of flames is always around the corner. It had to end sometime, and two years ago was as good a time as any."

A pointed stare from Antoine prompted Niklas to stand and follow the French man to the door. As he walked, the doctor's mind raced – the war between the Mann brothers had been carefully constructed, with each mercenary hand-picked to provide balances and make sure no single man had an unfair advantage. Without a spy class, someone to disarm those god-awful machines the Blu team's engineer constructed, it would be much harder for the Red team to accomplish anything. Impossible, even, if their engineer had made the kinds of advances Conagher had in his two years of downtime. At least the Red team's Pyro would still stay busy – nothing made that lunatic's gas mask eyeholes dance like igniting a previously-invisible foe.

They'd reached the enormous door that led to Antoine's curved driveway. He pulled the door open and fixed Niklas with a cool stare. "Give the others my best."

"Of course, mein freund." Niklas squinted. A black sedan sat at the foot of the stairs in front of him, its engine thrumming softly. Beyond the house, the driveway curved and disappeared into a patch of trees in the distance. An enormous wrought-iron fence surrounded the house on its other three sides. Antoine might not have any desire to head back to Teufort, Niklas thought, but he'd done quite well with making a fortress of his own.

(-)

Conagher stared at what was left of his kitchen and sighed. In less than two days, Doe had turned a clean – if somewhat bare – set of counters and refrigerator into what looked like a warzone. The Texan leaned in to examine something dark and sticky that oozed down one of the cabinets, his face set in a grimace. When he smelled it, he realized it was maple syrup.

They had two days until they were set to leave for Teufort. That meant two more days of squatters in his home. And their numbers were growing. It had been all he could do to convince them to hunt for Niklas without him, but Conagher had a feeling if he was forced to cram himself into Lawrence's van one more time, he was going to murder someone. With his bare hands.

At least getting his kitchen back into working order would give him something else to think about.

Conagher snatched a wash rag from one of the cabinet handles and got to work, scrubbing at the cheap countertops like his life depended on it. He grumbled as he worked, his voice building from a slow, steady stream of disgruntled mutters into something that was as close as Conagher could get to yelling without making the neighbors complain.

He'd managed to scrub the first layer of grime off the countertop when the front doorknob rattled, followed by an insistent knock.

Conagher whispered a curse and slung the rag over his shoulder. Either one of his former coworkers had forgotten something, or his neighbors had heard even more than usual through the apartment's spit-and-tissue walls and come to complain.

Judging by the way the week was going, he assumed it was the latter.

"What do you need?" Conagher yanked the door open, only to freeze at the sight of Niklas in an ill-fitting shirt and pair of flannel pants.

"_Guten tag_, Herr Conagher."

"The guys found you awfully fast. I don't think they've been gone for more'n an hour." The Texan glanced behind Niklas. "Where are they?"

"Zey didn't find me. I got a ride from Antoine's driver." Niklas stepped around Conagher and headed for the couch – or, more specifically, for the small overnight bag that contained the handful of clothes he'd managed to salvage from his laboratory.

Conagher frowned. That name sounded familiar. "Antoine?"

"Ze Spy." Niklas pulled a pair of pants out of the bag and flung them over the couch. "I… ran into him."

"Well, where is he? Is he on his way?"

"Nein. He said he's happy where he is."

"What?" Conagher fought to keep his voice from breaking. "How could he do that? I mean- we- will it even work if he doesn't come with us?"

The look Niklas gave Conagher was more than enough of an answer. "I don't know."

Conagher sighed. "I'll ask Lawrence when he gets back. Maybe he'll know what to do." After all, the Australian was the one in contact with Miss Pauling, and he was the one who was spearheading the push to get everyone back to Teufort. Surely he had something planned in case someone refused to return, or changed their minds.

But until Lawrence got back with the rest of the team, there was more than enough to do.

Starting with cleaning the refrigerator.

(-)

"Call for you, sir."

Antoine accepted the receiver and pressed it to his ear. "Yes?"

The conversation that followed left Antoine scowling and tempted to fling the phone against the wall. He hated bad news, but he hated it even worse when it made him look like a fool. The latest housekeeper hovered nearby, as if she wasn't sure whether to leave Antoine to stew or make sure he didn't need anything. Finally – and more to get her enormous blue eyes off him than anything else – Antoine motioned her away with a flick of his wrist, smirking at her back as she scurried out the door.

Once he was alone, Antoine stood and paced from one end of the sitting room to the other. It was a bad habit, one he'd fought to break more than once but always gone back to, like a guilty pleasure or a childhood blanket. At least the room was large enough to make the action somewhat enjoyable – twelve paces to the door, then twelve again to the window behind his chair.

Though he'd rather die than show it, the visit with Niklas had left him unsettled. Unlike the rest of the Red team, Antoine had never bothered with the workplace camaraderie that had made the daily act of killing and being killed bearable. But he had to admit, it was, well, _nice_ to see the face of one of the few people he had learned to trust in his lifetime.

Maybe a visit with the rest of them wouldn't be so bad, either.

"No." The word forced itself from Antoine's mouth before he even thought to speak it. The years he'd spent at Teufort felt like they had happened a lifetime ago. And sure, there was still a chance he'd wake up with a bullet sailing at his head or a knife between his ribs, but he had armed guards for that now. Not some hastily-constructed hunk of wires and metal built by a man who was trying to avoid gunfire at the same time.

But just a visit…

Antoine reached the far wall again and gazed through the windows. He could see his reflection, semi-transparent in the glow from the security lights that ringed his property. If he went back, he'd own nothing but the clothes on his back and the weaponry in his locker.

It wasn't until Antoine fully focused on his reflection that he realized he was pulling his coat around his shoulders. Then, before reason and logic could say no, he was yelling for the house keeper to notify the driver to bring the car to the front. Hopefully the man remembered Conagher's address.

Antoine might have had it all, but – and he hated to admit it to himself - he was lonely.

And just a visit wouldn't hurt.

* * *

><p>So I had this chapter finished. Uploaded. Published, even. And as I was closing the Word document, the EPIC HARDCORE BAT OF INSPIRATION connected with my forehead. The third part of this chapter was the result. Sorry if it made anything weird happen to your inboxes.<p>

Spy is such an eloquent guy. Maybe that's why I have so much trouble writing him. It's easier for me to write the Engie and Sniper – they're clever, but down-to-earth. I like that.

Thanks for reading! I hope everyone's holidays were as great as mine were – I got to hang out with my awesome family, eat way too much, and spend an entire day doing nothing but gaming and watching Doctor Who and Malcolm in the Middle reruns. It was wonderful. Hope everyone has a fun – and safe – New Years. See you all in 2012!


	11. Chapter 10

"Stop the car!"

The van's tires squealed as Lawrence slammed on the brakes. Horns blared, a dozen drivers swerving to avoid crashing into each other and avoid the now-stopped van at the same time. Lawrence spun in his seat, his mouth already open to scream a few choice words at Doe for scaring him half to death by yelling in his ear, but the American had already unbuckled himself and bolted out the side door.

Doe nearly tripped over the curb, catching himself on a parked car and earning himself a glare from its occupant. He sprinted toward a row of magazine dispensers that lined a business's entrance, his eyes wide.

"I can't believe it! I didn't know it'd be out this soon!"

Inside the van, Lawrence and DeGroot exchanged glances. Even Ivan, who had spent most of the search curled up in the back seat with Niklas's jacket pressed against his face, peered through the windows, one eyebrow raised.

"What is Soldier doing?"

"Only one way to find out." Lawrence slid the van against the curb and shifted into park. "C'mon."

The men piled out of the van, zipping jackets up to their throats and flipping hoods over their heads to fight the cold that had only gotten worse as the night went on. By then, Doe had made it to the dispensers. He pressed one hand against the glass window on the dispenser's front, the other feverishly digging in his coat pocket.

"Oh please, oh please, oh please," he muttered, swapping hands so he could rummage through the other pocket.

Lawrence, DeGroot and Ivan stopped a few feet away from Doe, their expressions hovering between curious and concerned.

"Big news, mate?"

Doe glanced back at them. "Can you loan me a couple bucks? I didn't know the new issue was out."

Lawrence squinted at the magazine in the dispenser. Its cover was a pastel lilac color, with spindly white trim that reminded him of a pattern an old woman might choose for her sofa. A plump, matronly-looking woman smiled from the cover, her face framed by loose brown curls kept in check by a tiny black hat. Beneath her picture, a handful of bullet points hinted at what readers might find inside.

"Er, you sure that's what you're lookin' for?" Lawrence chewed at his lip. "It looks a bit... frilly."

"'Frilly'? How dare you, man?Doe spun and fixed Lawrence with a furious glare. "I'll have you know this is Miss Middy, the most ladylike, uh, lady to ever put pen to paper!"

"Why does Soldier want to read lady paper?Ivan twisted his hands around Niklas's jacket. Lawrence fought the urge to roll his eyes; he hadn't realized the Russian had brought that stupid thing with him. "Soldier is not lady."

Doe sighed. "She might be a lady, but she's wise beyond her years, I tell you. People write in their problems, and she answers them. She's a genius! In the last issue, she told a man how to get rid of the squirrel problem in his garden! Now he's making a fortune selling squirrel burgers!"

"Actually, that _does_ sound kind of interesting."

"Then give me the money!"

Lawrence turned back toward the van. Two years of living in it meant the ashtray and just about any other concave surface was practically overflowing with change. "Fine, fine. Just a sec."

That left Ivan and DeGroot to watch as Doe stood by the dispenser like a guard dog, suspiciously eying anyone who dared to get close to it. Most of the time, anyone passing by took one look at Doe and hurried across the street.

It was only a few seconds before Lawrence was trotting back toward Doe. He pressed eight quarters into the former soldier's hand. "Here."

With a very unmanly squeal, Doe shoved the money into the dispenser and slid it open, pulling a copy of the magazine out before he let the door slam shut. Doe clutched the magazine to his chest and hurried back toward the van, a wide smile stretching across his face. "C'mon. We'll read it inside. I don't want it getting wet."

"But it's not raini-"

"JUST GET IN THE VAN."

The three men didn't dare to argue with Doe. They clambered toward the van and flung themselves inside the side door, pausing only to slide it shut behind them. Lawrence scooted into the driver's seat and started the engine.

"How about you read it when we get back to Conagher's place? That way we can still look for Niklas."

Doe gave his Australian friend a withering look. "Absolutely not. A real man doesn't put things off! Never do yesterday what you could have done last Tuesday, is what I always say.

But Lawrence had other things on his mind. Namely, the time Doe had tried to read a map while riding one of the payload match trains. "You sure?"

"Sure as a heart attack." Doe opened the magazine cover and tilted it so the outside lights hit the pages.

Thirty seconds later, he was puking into a gutter.

(-)

Niklas handed Conagher the spray bottle and fought the urge to cough. In the hour or so since he'd gotten back to the apartment, Conagher had moved through the rooms like a machine, straightening and disinfecting and organizing wordlessly. They'd made it into the bathroom, where the Texan was attacking the toilet bowl with bleach and a long-handled scrub brush.

It was hard for Niklas to believe. In the field, Conagher's barracks had reeked of diesel, and every available surface including the bed had been smeared with black globs of grease. Laundry day had been a nightmare for that reason, especially since anyone who got stuck with the washing machine after Conagher tended to have all their clothes come out smelling like an oil refinery.

But Niklas supposed it gave Conagher something to keep his mind off the problems at hand. Ever since he'd heard the news of Antoine refusing to accompany the mercenaries back to Teufort, Conagher had said little beyond the occasional request to pass the soap or bring him another rag from the cabinet below the sink.

At least it had made the living room smell a little better. Even though he'd missed the action that came with living at Teufort, Niklas had thoroughly enjoyed sleeping in a room that didn't smell like armpits.

"Y'know, Doc, I don't know what we're gonna do. "Conagher's voice startled Niklas. "I've been thinkin' about it, and the Spy was damn useful in a fight. More'n once he saved my skin by takin' out a Blu headed my way. And unless you've made it so that ubercharge of yours lasts at least twice as long, I don't see how we're gonna get around the other team's sentry. Who knows what kinda guns he's had time to build out there. Antoine could have given us a heads up on what we were fighting."

The best Niklas could do was shrug. "I don't know, Herr Conagher. I have not worked with ze uber technology since I removed it from you all. I had no use for it once I was out of ze field."

"Do you think you _could_ make it better, though?"

Another shrug. "Helen kept strict control on vat could be used during ze matches and what could not. She is ze one who told me to keep ze ubercharges below a minute."

Conagher leaned an elbow against the sink. "That's somethin' I never have been able to figure out. If she wanted us to win so bad, why all the rules? Why the time limits? Why would she let us have new weapons, but then send the same ones to the Blus?"

Niklas didn't have a reply for that. Sure, he suspected Helen had had her own reasons for keeping the fighting going, but he didn't have any kind of proof that he was right. It also didn't explain why she was bringing them back instead of hunting for a whole new crop of fighters, ones that could be molded into different classes that could have some kind of surprise factor on the other team. That would be the clever thing to do.

But he'd spent too many years sweeping his concerns about the Mann brothers' strange situation under the rug to start worrying about it then. "Perhaps Antoine vill be persuaded. Herr Mundy convinced us, did he not?"

"I didn't need much persuadin', and you had the mob after you. Don't think you had much of a choice but to come along."

"But look on the bright side, Herr Conagher." Niklas grinned. "Ve are all togezer again, _ja?_ Vatever happens, it should be very interesting."

(-)

**Author's note**: Something ate my formatting. All my opening quotes turned into Asian characters. I think I caught them all, but if you see any out-of-place characters or missing words, let me know.

Also, sorry for the shortish chapter. This week's been crazy busy.

Miss Middy magazine has been sitting in the back of my head for weeks now. I was so excited to finally get to introduce it.

Thanks for reading! See you all next week!


	12. Chapter 11

"Would you like me to circle the block, sir?"

Antoine peered through the car's dark-tinted windows. A grubby, four-story apartment complex sat across the street from where the car was parked. Sheets fluttered in the dirt- and cigarette smoke-clouded windows, and the noise of three dozen window units that doubled as heaters made the entire building seem as if it was humming. Children's yard toys littered a patch of dirt that ran along the street, providing pedestrians with a full audience of eyeless, ratty-haired dolls, broken remote-controlled cars and remnants of coloring book mishaps.

If Antoine had not placed his full trust in his driver, he wouldn't believe this was the place where a man whose I.Q. rivaled da Vinci's spent his nights.

Nearly an hour had passed since Antoine had arrived. In that hour, no one had entered or left the building, much to the Frenchman's irritation – he wasn't too keen on wandering the halls or knocking on random doors until he found the right room. And judging by the looks of the place, there was no chance of asking for help from a doorman or receptionist.

But his legs were cramping, and he had a feeling the soft coughs coming from the driver's seat were a weak attempt to cover up Carlton's gurgling stomach.

"No. I believe I'll go inside." Antoine opened the passenger door and stepped into the street. "I shouldn't take more than an hour."

The corners of Carlton's mustache twitched. It had taken Antoine almost a year to realize that was the driver's version of a smile. Chances were, his mind was already reeling down the street toward a burger joint they'd passed on the way. "Of course, sir. I'll be here when you get out."

"See to it that you are." Antoine straightened and slammed the door shut behind him. Shoulders hunched against the cold, he hurried across the street and toward the complex's main door, opening it and stepping inside in one fast, frigid movement.

To Antoine's surprise, the complex's foyer was clean and well-lit, with framed paintings of cattails along the walls that led to the first set of apartment doors. Twin metal staircases stood on opposite sides of the foyer, their steep wooden steps disappearing up to the second floor.

Not for the first time, Antoine wished he at least knew which floor Conagher lived on, and, of course, there was nothing resembling a directory as far as he could tell. His hand trailed to a small, square box that hung on a chain around his neck, a finger absently twining around it.

One thing was for certain – there was no way he could be caught dead in the complex by any of his colleagues. He'd seen what happened to the men who were caught "slumming it" by the multi-millionaires he bumped elbows with on a regular basis. Antoine valued few things in life, but the ever-increasing pile of cash in his safe was one of them.

So door-knocking and hoping for the best it was. Antoine took a deep breath and let it out in a slow, resigned sigh. He never should have come, never should have given into the nostalgia that had kept him from ordering Carlton back to his house.

Next time, he'd know better.

As far as Antoine could tell, the bottom floor housed most of the families with kids. A large plastic toy car sat outside one apartment, its surface covered in so many Crayon marks it was hard to tell what color it was in the first place. The carpet was littered with snack pouches and Cheerios, mingling with stains even the battle-seasoned Frenchman couldn't identify. A brightly-colored piece of foam hanging on one door proclaimed that it was "Brandi's Pad" – Antoine could rule that one out for sure, unless Conagher had made some lifestyle changes he hadn't been privy to.

"I can't believe you made me throw 'em out!"

The shriek sent Antoine darting into the darkened corridor that housed the complex's ice machine. He pressed himself against the wall, heart racing and cursing himself for being so jumpy. His steady paranoia had saved his life more than once at Teufort and thwarted at least one attempt on his life by a competing businessman, but it never ceased to irritate him. He wasn't some kind of cockroach that skittered for the safety of darkness at the first sign of danger.

"Y'weren't settin' foot in my van smellin' like yer last meal. Quit bellyachin'."

Antoine raised an eyebrow. He recognized that voice. Slinking along the wall, he leaned far enough around the corner to peek into the foyer.

"Just be glad Tex'll let you use his shower." Lawrence wrinkled his nose as Doe stormed past him and toward the stairs. The apartment's doors swung open, revealing Ivan and DeGroot, their expressions making it clear they had no desire whatsoever to get any closer to the fuming American.

"You're dead to me, mister. Dead!"

"Oh, for Pete's sake." Lawrence cast a pleading look toward DeGroot, only to frown at the look on the Scotsman's face. His eyes were wide and fixed on a point beyond Lawrence, toward the stairs. Slowly, Lawrence turned to follow DeGroot's gaze, only to see a pair of polished black shoes, dark blue pants and the unmistakeable silhouette of a police baton descending from one of the upper floors.

The Australian glanced back at his friend, who was frozen near the entrance, one hand still on the door handle.

"Go back to the car," he hissed, flinging the keys in DeGroot's direction. "Meet us upstairs when the coast is clear."

DeGroot nodded and disappeared back outside, pulling the door shut behind with a squeal.

The stairs creaked as the rest of the officer appeared, his face impassive. If he recognized the former mercenaries from their little stunt at the precinct earlier that evening, he didn't show it. With a curt nod – and a sneer as the stench hovering around Doe hit him – he brushed past the men and out the door.

Lawrence let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Alright. C'mon, let's get upstairs."

From his position near the ice machine, Antoine watched as the men climbed the stairs. He glanced toward the main entrance as a slow smile crept across his face.

He had a plan.

(-)

Conagher flung the apartment door open. "About time you guys got ba- wait. Which one of you has been rollin' around in soured beer?"

"Nah." Lawrence planted a hand in the middle of Doe's back and shoved him forward. "This'n got carsick."

The Texan's shoulders visibly slumped. An hour spent cleaning the bathroom, all for nothing. "Go rinse off, then."

Though he didn't appear happy to be ordered around, Doe stalked into Conagher's apartment with nothing more than a glare in Lawrence's direction.

"Where's DeGroot?"

"Eh, we ran into a Heeler on the way in. He's waitin' in the van for a bit." Lawrence frowned. "We never did find the doc. I figure we'll try again in the morning."

"Actually, he came back on his own after you guys left. Said the Spy found him and brought him here."

In Lawrence's mind, the news that Niklas had made it back to the apartment was almost eclipsed by the fact that they'd managed to track down the Spy. "No joke? Where is he? D'you know if he's kept in touch with any of the other-"

"He didn't come back with the Doc."

"What?" Lawrence's stomach dropped. "But why-"

Conagher silenced the former sniper with a gesture. "Don't ask me. I wasn't there."

It took less than ten seconds for Lawrence to shove past Conagher, make his way into the living room and corner Niklas. He loomed over the doctor, a stormy expression on his face and arms crossed over his chest.

Niklas looked up from the crossword puzzle balanced on his lap. The round spectacles he wore had slid down to the end of his nose. "Can I help you, Herr Mundy?"

"Tell me what happened with the Spy, doc."

Sighing, Niklas slid the glasses up his nose and leaned back on the couch, running a hand through his disheveled, graying hair. Slowly, he related the entire story to Lawrence, pausing only when the former sniper asked for more information, or demanded the doctor tell a certain part over again. As he spoke, Lawrence's expression grew more and more grim.

Once he'd finished speaking, Niklas took a deep breath and peered up at his friend. "Herr Conagher said you might know what to do in zis situation, since you are ze one in contact with Frau Pauling."

Lawrence didn't reply. To be honest, he hadn't even bothered asking Miss Pauling what to do if one of the mercenaries refused to come back. In his mind, returning to Teufort was the best that could possibly happen. It certainly beat sticking his hands into cupboards or walls and hoping whatever was in there didn't have claws or fangs. The hope that he'd someday be able to go back to what he did best was the only thing that had kept him from completely throwing in the towel through the last two years.

And even if he did call Pauling and ask what they should do, he had a feeling she'd tell him something he didn't want to hear. Would it even be possible to go back without the entire team, or would Helen call that 'unfair odds' and nix the entire program?

Then again, he'd rather call and make sure than face Helen's wrath at Teufort. At least a phone conversation meant several hundred miles separated him from her. Lawrence's mind wandered to the pay phone he'd seen on a lonely corner a few blocks from the apartment complex. He could walk there, give Pauling a call, and see what she had to say.

Before he could turn toward the door, though, the apartment door flew open with a muffled bang. DeGroot strode into the living room, his face impassive as he dropped onto the couch next to the doctor. Once he had settled, he tugged at the bandana that hid his empty eye socket and made an irritated noise in the back of his throat.

"Trouble, mate?"

DeGroot jerked at Lawrence's voice. When he spoke, his voice took on a defensive note. "Ach, no. The cold bit into me eye, is all."

"I gave you the keys. Y'could've turned the heat on."

"You did? Ach, I must've forgotten." The corner of DeGroot's lip curled into a half-smile. "Silly me."

Lawrence frowned. "Can I get the keys back, then?"

"Of course, of course." The Scotsman leaned forward and patted his pockets. "I must've left them in the van."

"You didn't _lose_ them, did you?" Lawrence's voice rose into a screech.

"Of course not! At least, I don't think I did..."

A hissing noise, not unlike a whistling teapot, escaped Lawrence's throat. But before he could wrap his bony hands around DeGroot's neck, the apartment door flew open again.

"You _bastard!_" A second DeGroot, wearing only a pair of tartan boxers and a thin white tank top, threw himself at the man sitting on the couch. "I nearly froze to death! I'll kill you!"

For the next twenty seconds, chaos reigned. Lawrence and Conagher took it upon themselves to pry the barely-clothed DeGroot from the other. Just as the Australian locked his arm around DeGroot's neck and began to drag him backward, a cloud of smoke went up from the couch.

"Get off me before I carve you a new smile." Antoine glared up at DeGroot, whose face was still twisted into a murderous snarl. The three men trying to pull him away heaved backward, finally managing to increase the distance between the two of them.

"What the hell is going on here?" Lawrence cautiously loosened the grip on DeGroot's throat. "The Doc said you weren't coming."

With one last sneer in DeGroot's direction, Antoine smoothed the front of his shirt. "I was sure you'd be out at least another half hour. I'd forgotten how thick your skull is. Perhaps I am losing my touch."

DeGroot grunted and yanked his arms out of Conagher's grasp. "Y'left me out there to freeze!"

"It wasn't cold enough to do any lasting damage."

"Why are you here?" The words trickled out of Conagher's mouth slowly, with emphasis on each one.

"Is it so hard to believe I wanted to catch up with my old, ah, friends?" Antoine fiddled with a loose thread on the sleeve of DeGroot's jacket. Though he could feel the former mercenaries' gazes boring into him, he refused to meet their eyes.

A boot tip dug into Antoine's shin. When he looked up, he found Conagher staring coldly at him. "If this is just a friendly visit, why beat the tar out of Tavish and cloak?"

Antoine smiled. "For old time's sake, yes?"

"I don't buy it."

Something hard glinted in Antoine's eyes. He took a deep breath and began to unbutton DeGroot's shirt, revealing his rather-crumpled suit jacket beneath. "I have information that might be useful to you."

"Information like what?"

"You are still missing the Pyro and the Scout, yes?"

Conagher's eyes narrowed. "I reckon we are."

Antoine slung the shirt toward DeGroot and started on the Scotsman's loose-fitting pants. "I can tell you where they are."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: <strong>I always pegged Spy as a guy who absolutely loves messing with other people's heads. Even if it means doing stuff that makes no sense every now and then.

My husband-slash-beta reader-slash-partner in crime read this chapter, and the first thing he asked is "when does the exciting stuff start happening again?"

So I promised him explosions and spurting blood and body counts in the next chapter. And then I think I creeped him out because I started chuckling and wandered away.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed! See you next week!


	13. Chapter 12

The temperature was close to zero, but Billy Walsh was burning up.

He hunched over the Honda's engine, fighting to tune out the roar of the five thousand voices that echoed from one end of the motocross track to the other. Concentrating on the Honda's thrumming engine helped. So did reminding himself that in ten minutes, the crowd wouldn't matter. All that would matter was the adrenaline, and defying gravity as fast as he could.

Billy closed his eyes, allowing his mind to wander the length of the track. After a month of breaking in after dark and doing everything from running it on foot to lumbering through it in one of his brother's old dune buggies, he knew the course by heart. Every twist and turn was embedded in his subconscious, every stomach-dropping peak mapped out in advance.

The crowd swelled, their voices growing so loud they drowned out even the rumbling engine less than two feet from Billy's ears. A high-pitched squeal cut through the noise, followed by the last rider's stats. Six minutes, four seconds. Eighty-nine points out of a hundred, a score that would put him at the front of the pack. Not bad.

But Billy was better.

The announcer said Billy's name through the megaphone. The unknown newcomer who had blown through the preliminary trials and left the judges' jaws in the dust.

A smiling, dark-haired girl cast a glance in Billy's direction and, in one slow motion, raised a checkered flag above her head. A grin spread across Billy's face.

The flag dropped.

He twisted the Honda's right handle.

Flicked his wrist at the clutch.

And flew.

A fountain of dirt exploded behind the Honda as it surged forward, tires digging into the cold-hardened dirt and rocketing both the bike and Billy down the track. The noise of the crowd faded in Billy's mind until it was forgotten entirely. Cold wind bit at what little skin was exposed, but he ignored that too as he leaned into the first turn, his attention already focused on the jump ahead of him.

He felt the incline before he saw it. The Honda's front end tipped up, and Billy cranked the gas handle, pushing the bike to go faster and launch into the air like a wingless bird.

In an instant, the ground fell away. The Honda's engine roared, its motor surging to turn wheels that didn't have anything to push off.

The wide smile reappeared, disappearing into the thick foam on either sides of Billy's helmet. Adrenaline coursed through his veins until his entire body felt like it was buzzing, like any second he'd explode from the tension of it.

And then the impact of the bike hitting the ground. It twisted beneath Billy, nearly upending before he could wrestle it back into a straight path. Billy cursed and jerked the gas handle hard, sending the bike shooting down the track – losing control of the bike would cost him precious time, especially in a race where milliseconds decided the winner.

The second jump loomed in front of him, taller than the first and half as wide. He'd need to ease up on the power, let the bike's momentum carry it through the jump and let gravity do the rest.

But Billy Walsh never let up on anything.

He shot up the ramp and across the gap, allowing himself a moment of sheer, indulgent laughter at the second dose of weightlessness. He shifted sideways, and the Honda's back wheel moved with him. It was a simple trick, but it brought a roar of applause from the crowd and a muffled chuckle from Billy. They were so easy to please.

The twisted position allowed the Bostonian a clear view of the crowd clustered along one side of the track. Before the race, the turnout had surprised him – given the frigid weather the last few days, he hadn't expected many people to bundle up just to watch a bunch of motocross racers fly down a three-mile course.

Then one upturned face caught his eye.

But no, it couldn't be-

Billy jerked in midair, sending the Honda twisting further sideways. The ground rushed toward him, and he had little time to regain his balance before the bike slammed into the ground. The jolt smashed him against the Honda's seat, and before he could react it shot forward. Billy barely had time to realize he wasn't headed straight down the course anymore, but at a line of sandbags that separated him from the crowd. There was a sudden crunch, followed by the sound of metal collapsing on itself as the Honda smashed into the sandbags.

Briefly, Billy felt nothing but the sensation of flying through the air. His fingers twitched; suddenly, he realized the Honda was no longer beneath him. Through his helmet's lightly-tinted visor, he could see one of the stunted, scraggly trees that lined the course's perimeter, rushing toward him. Something orange flared behind him, followed by a rush of sound and heat.

And then, nothing.

(-)

"Sir, the paramedics are on the way, you should wait until-"

"I know _exactly_ vat I am doing, freund. Let me vork." Niklas glared at the race official standing over him. His hands glinted red in the sunlight, covered in blood that, in the frigid air, was turning to jelly. After a moment, the official spun on his heel and disappeared in the ring of gawkers that clustered around the limp form of Billy Walsh.

A fist-sized chunk of Billy's skull had crunched inward when he hit the tree, turning most of his swollen face into a blood-streaked mess and staining the frozen ground red. One of his legs was twisted into an unnatural angle, tipped with a shock of white that could only mean at least one broken bone.

And Niklas hadn't even begun to focus on the blood bubbling from between Billy's tattered lips.

The bike still smoldered fifty feet away, its popping and groaning frame already covered in a sudsy white coat of extinguisher's foam. In the moment before Billy had hit the tree, the bike had exploded, sending the crowd scurrying for cover from the shower of metal bits that had suddenly rained down on them. They'd trickled back in twos and threes, drawn by the promise of gore and what Niklas could only assume was a grim satisfaction to see someone tempt death and lose the wager.

And what kind of back-alley competition didn't bother to have paramedics on hand? Niklas snorted in disgust. Not that trained 'professionals' would help, though. He knew exactly what an EMT would think when they saw Billy's mangled head – hopeless case, a sure dead-on-arrival. There was no way they'd be able to save him, not with the crushed skull and internal bleeding and God knew what else.

But Niklas could.

"Get zem back!" Niklas snarled at Lawrence and Conagher, who had worked to keep the most curious onlookers from getting more than a foot or two from Billy's prone form. The doctor didn't bother to look up – the sound of Lawrence and Conagher's sudden, raised voices was more than enough for Niklas to know they were doing what he'd demanded.

"He's a _doctor,_ mate. He knows what he's doin'!"

_Stupid boy_, Niklas thought as her pressed his fingers to Billy's wrist. The Bostonian's pulse fluttered beneath his grip.

"Nein, boy. Six years, I worked on keeping you alive. I refuse to let you get away from me zis time." Niklas's hand disappeared into his coat pocket. A rush of warmth slid up his arm as his fingers closed around the medi-pen. Ten seconds, tops, and he'd have Billy on his feet, good as new.

But no, he couldn't do that either. Not here, at least, surrounded by a hundred slack-jawed gawkers. People would ask questions.

"Herr Mundy!"

Lawrence glanced back at his German friend. He and Conagher had managed to clear a rough circle about twenty feet wide. From the back of the crowd, someone shouted that an ambulance was on its way.

Niklas hated to move Billy. If something shifted wrong they could end up with more than just fragments of skull and blood on the ground. Or he could have a broken neck, or-

No. Niklas shook the thought from his head and took a deep breath. "I am going to get him to ze van. Clear a path."

"Will do, doc."

At that, the doctor slid his arms under Billy's shoulders and knees. Luckily for both of them, the Bostonian hadn't grown much in the two years since their time at Teufort. Niklas thought back. How old had their runner been at the fort? Nineteen? Twenty?

A thin wail – the unmistakable sound of approaching sirens – pierced the air. Niklas broke into a sprint, ignoring the angry shouts from people demanding he leave Billy and let the paramedics do their job when they showed up.

A short, fat man in a flannel shirt and frayed jeans emerged from the crowd to jog alongside the doctor. "Do you know him?"

"I know vat I am doing," Niklas snapped.

"He signed a release form, you know. He can't hold us responsible. He can't sue. And the wreck was obviously his fault. Everyone saw what happened."

Niklas didn't reply. He was more concerned with the blood now oozing from Billy's nose.

"I can produce the form. There were witnesses who saw him sign it."

The van loomed in front of Niklas. In one lightning-fast motion, he shifted Billy onto his knee, swung the door open with his free hand, and pulled both of them inside.

"He doesn't have a legal leg to-"

Niklas flung the door shut, cutting the man's voice short. In the sudden silence, he could hear the thick gurgle coming from Billy's lips, coupled with a dull popping that he recognized as air breaking through pockets of blood.

"Stupid boy," the doctor whispered. "You never learn."

The medi-pen flashed in the light. Moving almost frantically, Niklas flicked it on and pressed the tip against Billy's chest. The exposed skull could wait for half a second while the doctor ensured the Bostonian wasn't going to drown in his own blood. Tension tightened Niklas's chest. He'd never used the medi-pen for trauma care. For all he knew everything would heal in the wrong order and Billy would be left with failing organs and perfect skin.

But he wouldn't think about that right then.

Niklas peeled back the tattered, bloodstained shirt from Billy's chest. It had been less than fifteen seconds, but the shredded skin had healed itself, leaving only a rumpled scar that ran from one of Billy's shoulders to the other. The gurgling noises coming from the Bostonian's throat grew quieter, replaced with the gentle rise and fall of easy breathing.

Niklas let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. So far, so good.

The medi-pen cast a red glow on the matted, bloody mess that was Billy's scalp. Before Niklas's eyes, the exposed bone lifted, bright white lines filling in the dark cracks and empty spaces. The skin stretched across the creaking, healing bone until it was nothing but bright pink flesh and bloody tufts of hair. The boy would have a bald spot for a while, but with any luck the hair would grow back and look… well, close to normal, hopefully. He dropped the pen and grabbed for Billy's wrist.

A strong, steady pulse thrummed against Niklas's fingers. Any other doctor might have worried, but the Bostonian had always had a pulse like a hummingbird's, so fast it felt more like a marching drum than something doctors would find in a normal person.

The van door swung open, revealing Conagher and Lawrence. Behind them, an ambulance, its sirens blaring and lights flashing, barreled down the dirt road that led to the motocross track. The Texan swung himself inside.

"I reckon we've overstayed our welcome." Conagher glanced down at Billy's still-prone form. "Y'think he'll be alright?"

"Barring brain damage… I think so. I have never used ze medi-pen on head trauma before."

"Well, count on the runner to be your first patient. He always did like to be first." A pause, then. "How soon will we know if everything turned out alright?"

"I don't know. An hour, maybe more?"

The van rattled to life as Lawrence leapt into the passenger seat and twisted the key in the engine. "Let's hope they don't follow us. I don't care to explain what exactly's been happenin' in here."

Niklas grabbed the arm rest to keep from falling off the seat as Lawrence gunned the engine, sending the van careening down the road. Between him and Conagher, they managed to keep Billy from sliding into the floorboard.

"Y'might not be able to hear me, but I gotta say, kid," Conagher shook his head, though the beginnings of a smirk played at the corners of his lips. "You sure know how to rile folks up."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: One of the things I struggle with in my writing is dialogue usage. I'm always afraid my stories have too much talk and not enough description or non-spoken action to move the plot along. It was fun – and kind of challenging – to write a huge chunk that didn't include a single quotation mark. Plus it was interesting to try and get inside Scout's head. He always struck me as a cross between Ricky Bobby and Evel Knievel.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed! See you next week!


	14. Chapter 13

_A shower of leaves fell around the Australian's shoulders as he approached the house. It looked like something out of a home and garden magazine – two stories, a yellow paint job with bright white trim that matched the picket fence around the yard._

_From the outside, no one would ever guess that the place was just about infested with rattlesnakes._

_Normally, Lawrence would have passed on that particular job, but the owner's blue eyes and anxious smile had convinced him otherwise._

_"Mister Mundy, you have no idea how much I appreciate you coming out here." The homeowner – if Lawrence remembered right, her name was Dina – swung the screen door open with a grateful smile. She wore a white sundress, and her dark red hair gathered into loose curls just below her shoulders. "I'm at my wits' end, here."_

_Lawrence replied with a mumble so soft he couldn't even hear himself. He fought the urge to tug at the collar of his button-down shirt. He felt ridiculous. What the hell had possessed him, to make him wear something other than sturdy coveralls and leather boots when he was dealing with _snakes_, of all things? Snakes?_

_He followed Dina in, carefully sneaking glances at the pictures that lined the mantel and walls. As far as he could tell, most of the pictures involved Dina and three dark-haired kids at the park, or in front of a tank of seahorses at the zoo, or wrestling in the yard._

_"Cute kids you have, there."_

_"Oh!" Dina laughed. "Those are my sister's kids. Tabby's six, Mark is eight and Em will be eleven this December."_

_"Ah."_

_Dina stopped in the kitchen and pointed to a row of white cupboards below the sink. "It seems like most of them are congregating here. The water heater's on the other side of the wall. Maybe they like it there because it's warm?"_

_"That's entirely possible, Miss." Lawrence's canvas work bag hit the floor with a dull thump. A heavy metal filing cabinet sat shoved against the cupboard doors. Grunting, Lawrence shouldered the cabinet out of the way. "I'll, ah, I'll just get to work, then."_

_Now that the cabinet was out of the way, Lawrence knelt, pulling a pair of heavy leather gloves out of the bag. When he slid them onto his hands, they came all the way up to his elbow. Next came a collapsible pole with a hooked end. There was no way he was letting some legless bitey bugger get within eighteen inches of his skin.._

_"I really do appreciate you coming on such short notice."_

_Lawrence jumped at the sound of Dina's voice. He'd nearly forgotten she was still in the room. When he turned around, he found her sitting on top of the kitchen table, her legs tucked to one side. "It's nothin', really. Can't have yeh livin' with snakes in the house."_

(-)

"I dunno, doc. He looks dead to me." Conagher snapped Billy's eyelid shut, earning himself an irritated glare from the doctor sitting a few feet away.

"He is breathing, freund."

"No, no, I don't mean, y'know, _dead,_ dead." Conagher tapped a grubby finger against his forehead. "I mean, ah, vegetable dead."

"Are you a doctor, Herr Conagher?"

The Texan chuckled. "No way."

"Zen shut up and trust me."

In the half hour or so since the three former mercenaries had scooped up their mangled comrade, Billy Walsch hadn't so much as twitched, much to Niklas's mounting concern. Lawrence's constant, worried glances toward the back seat where Billy still lay immobile didn't help. Neither did Conagher, who kept prodding at the boy like he was going to open his eyes and fly off the seat any minute.

Up front, Lawrence's took a deep breath and ran a hand over his face. He hated to admit it to himself, but Antoine's outright refusal to come back to Teufort with them – even after he'd gone to the trouble of sneaking into Conagher's apartment for what he'd called a "social visit" – had hit him hard. And now, with their runner half-dead and the best doctor in the northern hemisphere unsure about his recovery, what would become of them? Of him?

(-)

_Lawrence slung the hissing, writhing canvas bag into the back of the van and slammed the door. He could still feel Dina's eyes on him, watching as he squared his shoulders and headed to the front seat, opened the door, and climbed inside. She'd paid him well enough – more than he'd expected, and the cash would cover a couple good meals and a replacement wheel bearing so he wouldn't spend half his time worrying if the van's front right wheel would fly off during a turn. Hell, if nothing else he could eat the snakes if he got hungry enough._

_"What the hell do you want?"The seat belt clicked into place. Lawrence glanced to his right at the woman sitting in his passenger seat._

_Emily Pauling gave the Australian a timid smile. "I have to admit, Mister Mundy, you seem to be fitting into the outside world quite well."_

_"Don't patronize me." Pain flared on Lawrence's palms. When he looked down, he saw he had dug his fingernails into his skin, hard enough to draw blood._

_"I'm not-!" Pauling took a deep breath and continued, her voice quieter. "I'm not patronizing you, Mister Mundy. Helen sent me."_

_"Yeah? You think I give a damn what that harpy wants? She's out of my life, and so are you." Lawrence jammed the key in the ignition and twisted. "Get out."_

_Pauling hesitated, and for a moment Lawrence thought she was actually going to listen to him. But she was Helen's crony through and through, and though she chewed at her lip, when she spoke her voice was firm. "Helen wants you back at Teufort."_

_Those words were enough to take Lawrence's hand off the gear shift. Instinctively, he glanced out the window to make sure no one was nearby. "What are you talking about? There's no war anymore. Blutarch-"_

_"Blutarch isn't dead, Mister Mundy."_

_"What?" Lawrence caught a flutter of movement in the house's front window. A curtain shifted sideways, then back into position in an instant. He sighed. "There's folks watchin' us, Miss."_

_"Drive, then. The car will follow us."_

_It was then Lawrence noticed a black sedan parked a half a block down the street. He sighed and shoved the van into drive, slowly accelerating until they were puttering through Dina's neighborhood. When Lawrence glanced in the side mirror, he saw the sedan had fallen in behind the van._

(-)

A sudden, gurgling wail cut through the inside of the van. Lawrence jerked the steering wheel, nearly sending the van careening into the curb.

"Vell, zis is unexpected." Niklas's voice was calm, even as he flung himself over Billy's convulsing form to keep the boy from smashing into the floorboard. "Zere must be something ze medipen missed. Herr Conagher, hold him down, if you please."

"What are you gonna do?"

From the rear view mirror, Lawrence caught a glimpse of something silver emerging from the doctor's pocket. "If zere is something ze medipen cannot reach, zen ve have no choice but to, ah, clear a path."

"You're..." Disbelief dripped from Conagher's voice. "You're talking about cutting him open? _Here?_"

"_Ja. _So hold him still. Zis vill be difficult without anesthetic." The silver tool – now that it was out of Niklas's pocket, Lawrence could tell it was something that resembled a box cutter – descended on Billy's shuddering chest.

"Herr Mundy, you might vant to stop ze car."

(-)

_"Like- like I was saying, Mister Mundy, Blutarch is not dead. I don't know how we missed it," Pauling shook her head, "but for the last two years he's been holed up in a bunker further north, plotting one last huge bout that will win him Mann Co. once and for all. His mercenaries never left Teufort. They've been training in there, waiting until Blutarch decides it's time to execute his plan."_

_"And what d'you expect me to do about that? If you wanted subterfuge, y'should've gone after the Frenchman."_

_It was Pauling's turn to look frustrated. "We can't find him. Or any of the others. I'm amazed we managed to hunt you down."_

_Lawrence kept his eyes focused on the road ahead. Perfectly-manicured lawns and expensive cars flashed by him on both sides, broken only by the occasional line of neat hedges._

_"Mister Mundy, have you kept in touch with the other members of the team?" Pauling's voice was so hopeful Lawrence couldn't help but snort._

_"No. We weren't supposed to be friends, remember? I dunno where they are. So you can forget whatever it is you came here to say and let me get on with my life."_

_"'Get on with your life'?" She laughed again, but this time it was a harsh, heartless sound. "Mister Mundy, unless I'm mistaken you just pulled sixteen snakes out from under a woman's grease trap. You've gone from one of the highest-paid mercenaries in North America to a glorified dogcatcher!"_

_Lawrence's knuckles shone white against the steering wheel. "And so what if I have? It's a living."_

_"What happened to you? I can't believe I'm hearing this from the man who could successfully hit a bulls-eye from four hundred yards."_

_A snarl curled Lawrence's lips. He stomped the brakes, and Pauling lurched forward, her palms smacking against the dash board. Behind them, the sedan screeched to a halt._

_"And what do you want me to do? I told you, I _don't know where they are. _Hell, if I knew where they were, I'd help y'round 'em up and be first on the train." By then he was screaming, but he didn't care. "You think I enjoy crawling around in basements and bathrooms looking for spiders, or running face-first into an unhappy set of teeth or claws? You think I don't _miss_ three squares a day, and actually feeling useful for something other than pulling squirrels out of chimneys?"_

_When Lawrence dared to look at the woman next to him, he was surprised to see a smile playing on her lips. "What?"_

_"We can't give you much in the way of information, but Helen said she's picked up some chatter on a bear-sized Russian working in a bakery a few towns over."_

_"I don't- I-"_

_"You have two options, Mister Mundy." Pauling's glasses glinted in the sunlight. "You can keep doing what you are now. Or, you can help us, and help yourself in the process. Find Ivan and see if he can point you toward the others. Get the group back together. Return to Teufort, and win."_

_Before Lawrence could reply, Pauling flung the passenger door open and swung herself outside. She looked up at Lawrence, her eyes hard. "Choose wisely. The train leaves in two weeks."_

(-)

Gritting his teeth, Lawrence pulled Billy's ribs as far apart as he could, ignoring the boy's creaking bones and the wet sound of stretching tendons.

Conagher gripped Billy's shoulders, fighting to keep the Bostonian still as Niklas readied the medi-pen. "Is this gonna work?"

"I hope so." Niklas raised his eyebrows when he saw his friends' faces. "I mean, I think so."

At that, he plunged the medi-pen into the boy's chest cavity. There was a deep, mechanical whirring sound that cut off as quickly as it began. Slowly, Niklas pulled his hands and the pen out of Billy's chest. The doctor's thumb stayed mashed on the pen's button so its red glow still fell on the boy's skin, allowing it to re-grow for the second time that day.

Billy's entire body shuddered, then lay still.

"Did it work?" Conagher ran a bloody hand over his forehead.

Niklas pulled Billy's hand into his, pressing a thumb against the boy's wrist. He didn't reply, but the look on his face was all the answer Conagher needed. "You... you killed him. You-!"

Three things happened at once: the Texan's fist collided with Niklas's cheek. Someone knocked on the van's door.

And Billy opened his eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's notes:<strong> This chapter was a PAIN to upload. I don't know if it's an issue on my end, or something with the website, but the connection kept timing out and it would tell me the new chapter failed to convert. I spent forever fighting with it before I wound up using a round-about way that involved exporting an existing chapter and modifying it into a new one. Bah.

For the last several weeks, I've really wanted to expand on Sniper's back story. Personality-wise, he's one of my favorite characters in the TF2-verse. And as much as I feel flashbacks tend to be cliché, I couldn't help but let him have his time in the spotlight.

I think I'm finally caught up on contacting all the awesome people who have taken time to review this story. If I haven't sent you a message, or you submitted an anonymous review, believe me when I say I'm really grateful for your feedback, whether it's positive or negative. This started out as a side project to help me work with multiple third-person points of view, and it's turned into something really fun, and you guys are a HUGE part of why that happened. :) See you next week!


	15. Chapter 14

For a moment, no one spoke.

"What the… what the hell are you guys doing here?" Billy attempted to set up. A sharp pain lanced through his chest, and he fell back onto the van's seat. "Where am I? Did I win?"

The knocking came again, more insistent this time and followed by a deep voice commanding them to open the van's door. Niklas, one hand pressed against his already-purpling jaw, shot a glare in Conagher's direction and shifted so the Australian could slide past.

To his credit, Lawrence managed to wrap his blood-slicked hands around the door knob and slide it sideways, revealing an officer whose mustached face was set in a deep scowl.

"I can explain-" Lawrence began, only to be cut off by a meaty hand clamping itself on his shoulder and forcing him face-first into the ground. Gravel ground against the Australian's skin, forcing itself into his nose and mouth and making it nearly impossible to breathe. Next came a knee planting itself firmly between Lawrence's shoulder blades.

Conagher swung his legs out the door. "Officer, we-"

"_You stay inside the van!" _the officer bellowed, his knee shoving down so hard Lawrence's shoulder popped. With his free hand, the policeman pressed at the radio attached to his collar. "I've located them. Requesting backup."

The bench seat creaked as Billy pulled himself into a half-sitting, half-reclining position. "What have you guys gotten me into? And why does it feel like someone threw me under a bus?"

That statement earned the former mercenaries a sudden, flustered silence from the officer, who stared at Billy as if he'd sprouted wings. "You- but- you were dead!"

"_What?_" Ignoring the fire-hot surge of pain that bloomed in his midsection, the Bostonian surged to his feet. He balled his fists, staring first at Conagher, then the doctor. "_Which one of you killed me?"_

"None of us did." Conagher spoke slowly. "You crashed yer bike and tore yerself up somethin' fierce. Doc here patched you up."

A bored female voice buzzed from the radio, informing him two more squad cars were on their way. His mustache twitched, but he gave no indication that he'd heard. Instead, his eyes stayed locked on Billy and the jagged scar running from the boy's stomach to sternum. "I saw 'em drag you in here. Half your 'ead was missin', boy. There's no way…"

A mixture of shock and disbelief registered on Billy's face. He opened his mouth to speak, only to be silenced by an elbow in his ribs and Conagher's raised voice.

"As you can see, officer, the boy's fine. The best doc this side of the Mississippi was lookin' after 'im."

The officer shifted into a sitting position, allowing Lawrence to push himself onto his hands and knees. The Australian's fingers twitched, itching to wrap themselves around the policeman's throat. "But there's still… I don't see how…"

"Always been a quick healer, that'n." Conagher jerked his head in Billy's direction. "Ain't ya, Walsch?"

Billy's hands found the rough bald patch just above his left temple. What little color that was in the boy's face faded. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

Conagher chewed his lip, watching the officer's expression cycle between incredulous and sheepish. He chanced a look in Lawrence's direction, their brief eye contact conveying a conversation only battle-hardened comrades could have managed. It was Wednesday afternoon, which mean the men had less than forty-eight hours before they had to be on the train back to Teufort. They couldn't afford any more distractions, especially one that came in the form of a second jailbreak in less than a week.

If it came down to it, the four men – or Conagher and Lawrence, at least – were going to have to fight their way out of this one. The Texan tensed, sending the most miniscule of acknowledging glances to the former sniper. His mind raced through the inventory of half-finished inventions and the "Cognitive Sentry" sitting disassembled in the back, but there wouldn't be time to make use of any of that. No, any kind of altercation would be the kind with fists.

But it never came to that. The officer, apparently completely bewildered by seeing a seemingly-dead twenty-three-year-old come back to life, threw his hands up and took a step back.

"C-carry on." He ran a hand over his mustache. "I... you... Just, just stay out of trouble."

At that, the officer turned on his heel and shuffled back to the squad car, mumbling into his radio as he went. The cruiser rumbled to life, then swerved around the van and down the street.

Conagher took a slow, deep breath. "I... can't believe that just happened."

"Me neither, mate." Lawrence hoisted himself back inside, brushing the last bits of gravel off his front.

The four men stared at each other.

Then Niklas, still pressed into the corner of the van's back seat, let out a low chuckle.

That was all it took for the four men to begin laughing hysterically. The noise echoed through the van, loud enough to draw the attention of people on the other side of the street. Still snickering, Lawrence slid the door shut, clapping his free hand on the Bostonian's shoulder.

"You have no idea how glad I am to see you're up'n around, mate."

"Yeah, well, that's nice and all." Billy's smile faded. "But would someone please tell me what is going on?"

(-)

To his credit, Billy had managed to wait until the men had filed back into Conagher's apartment before he got his explanation. From his perch on the arm of the couch, he listened impassively as Lawrence ran through the story for what felt like the hundredth time. It concluded with the men's arrival at the motocross track.

"Then you went flyin' through the air, and next thing we see, yer layin' there on the ground like roadkill, half yer head gone and bleedin' like a stuck pig."

"Y'know, I coulda swore I saw you guys when I hit that third jump." He rolled up the sleeve of the shirt he'd borrowed from Conagher's closet. "Thought I was crazy for a second there."

From the kitchen doorway, Conagher managed a weak grin. "I reckon insanity might've been a better option than just about bustin yer head to bits."

Billy nodded, one hand on the bald spot where the medi-pen had worked his magic. "Doc, I assume you're responsible for this?"

"_Ja_." Niklas held a bag of frozen peas against his jaw. The swelling had gone down, but a brilliant purple bruise now covered the lower half of the left side of his face.

Conagher cast a guilty look at the doctor. Even though Niklas had accepted the Texan's apology readily enough, Conagher half-expected to wake up that night and find himself on the business end of a scalpel. If he woke up at all.

...maybe he could bring the Cognitive Sentry up from the van and tweak the programming a bit. Just to be safe.

"Zo I must say, you might have helped me more zan I helped you, _junge._ Ze vork vith ze medi-pen... I could not have asked for a better opportunity to test it. I can't vait to use it on ze battlefield. Ze BLU team vill not know vat hit zem."

With a grunt, Billy shifted himself off the couch arm and onto a cushion. "I dunno, guys. To be honest, I can't say I'm too excited to head back to that hellhole and spend my days as a running pincushion."

"What?" Lawrence's mouth dropped open. "You, the chap who used to paint a bulls-eye on his arse and streak through the BLU HQ, are saying you don't want to go back?"

The Bostonian shifted uncomfortably, one hand scratching at the scar on his chest. "I dunno. It's just, y'know, the long hours, the bullet wounds, going months at a time without calling home..."

"It's a girl, innit?" For the last several minutes DeGroot had been silent, but now he eyed Billy knowingly, a miniscule smirk on his lips.

Color flooded Billy's face. "No! I just-"

"Laddie buck, I spent more'n one night chasin' starry-eyed bairns like you outta my pub. I know the look, and it's all over your face."

"Fine. So what if there _is_ a girl? It's not like I need your permission to _have_ a girl."

"Ah, so you two are-"

"Yeah." Billy's voice was defiant. "Yeah, we are."

"And where was she, while you were smashin' yer head in?"

The look on Billy's face made it clear he wanted to sock Conagher in the nose. "She works nights."

Doe snorted. "One of _those_ girls, huh?"

"You shut the hell up! She's a _nurse_!" Billy lurched forward, only to be forced back onto the couch by Niklas and Conagher.

"C'mon, Walsch. We can't have you runnin' out on us, too."

"'Too'? Who else said they wouldn't come?"

Lawrence took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Antoine."

"Who the f-"

"The Spy, mate."

"And they're all okay with that? With us being a man short? I thought Helen was all about equality and making sure none of the teams had an advantage against the other." Billy's foot bounced against the floor. He felt like he needed to take a walk – or better yet, a jog. Or even better, he could start running and not stop until he was at Annie's apartment. He could wait for her there until she got in from her shift. And even though she'd be exhausted and disheveled and reeking of disinfectant, she'd be absolutely beautiful.

Doe drummed his fingers against the carpet. "Well, men, there's only one way to solve this problem."

Conagher raised an eyebrow. "And what's that?"

"Simple." Doe smirked. "We kill her."

"_What?_"

"Oh, for Pete's sake." Lawrence ran a hand over his face. "Shut up, Doe. No one's killing anyone."

"It's perfectly reasonable. Dead men – er, women, tell no tales. You know."

The Australian cast a pleading look at the ceiling. Why, of all the perfectly normal murderous madmen wandering around the country, had he been stuck with that American whackjob?

"Y'need to think of the money, kid." Conagher leaned his head against the door frame. "Practically speaking, y'could support the two of you on what Helen's willin' to pay us. Mighty responsible, if you ask me."

"Or we could just kill her! I'm telling you, it'd be easy!"

Billy climbed to his feet, pulling Conagher's oversized shirt around him.

"What're you doing?" Lawrence raised an eyebrow.

The Bostonian ignored him, walking toward the apartment door and pulling it open.

"Good luck, guys. I'm out." At that, Billy slammed the door behind him.

No one moved, but the knot in Lawrence's stomach pulled itself tighter. He stared, open-mouthed, at the door, and though his mind raced he couldn't think of any words to say. The same nine words filtered through his head, over and over until they all swirled together into one:

_There's no way they'll let us come back now._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: Alright guys, I have some good news and some bad news.

The bad news is, there won't be an update next Friday. I'm road-tripping with my husband and some friends up to Kansas City Thursday for Naka-Kon, and the days leading up to the con are gonna be crazy-busy for me, both work-wise and as far as last-minute cosplay tweaks.

BUT, the good news (well, I guess it depends on your version of 'good news') is, two weeks from today you will not only have the next TLH chapter, but also, ALSO, a brand-spankin'-new short story. It's in the same vein as "Heavy's Lullaby," if you happened to read that one.

That said, if you're planning on going to Naka-Kon, come say hi to me! My husband and I will be the Demoman and Pyro wandering around the convention hall. We can even have a secret fanfiction-friend phrase, like, "The atomic kittens you ordered are ready." I like the sound of that.

Otherwise, see you in two weeks!

Atomic kittens. All glowy and whatnot. That'd be _awesome._

* * *

><p><em><em>**EDIT:** I forgot to add - HOLY MILKDUDS A HUNDRED REVIEWS. You guys are the best, seriously. And one e-cookie to River and Kermit for being the 100th review. Hope you like raisin. :3


	16. Chapter 15

Billy heaved a sigh as he opened the door to Annie's apartment. The smell of cinnamon and cloves – some kind of potpourri her brother had brought back from a trip overseas – hit him, overwhelming and reassuring all at once. Yellow light filtered in from thin brown drapes, revealing Annie's living room in sharp silhouettes. There was the ragged couch they'd salvaged from an estate sale, and the coffee table that had been left to rot in front of a coffee shop down the street.

Absently, Billy kicked his sneakers against the wall and dropped the key on the counter, allowing the door to swing shut behind him.

"Bill?"

The Bostonian jerked, nearly smashing into the wall behind him. Light suddenly bathed the room, revealing Annie with her hand on the hallway switch. Her eyes widened at Billy's borrowed shirt and bloodstained pants.

"Uh, hey hon. What're you doin' home so early?" Billy cleared his throat and started to say something else, only to have his words cut off by a sharp slap to the side of his face.

"Do you have any idea how worried I've been?" Annie's soft face twisted into a snarl. "Someone calls for an ambulance, says there's been an accident at the track and number sixteen's – and last I checked, that was _your number_ – bashed his head in. Then, _then_ when the crew gets there, they call us to say the patient was scooped up by three men who took off in a van."

"Sweetheart, I can explain-"

"Explain what?" The tight bun at the back of Annie's head came loose, sending loose brown curls tumbling to her shoulders. She ignored it, looming over a cowering Billy with her hands balled into fists. "Explain how I was so worried they sent me home early? Explain how I sat here, waiting for a call, or some kind of news that you were alive? And then you have the audacity to come in, looking like someone beat you half to death, and, and..." She finished with a loud, shuddering sigh and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You have a lot of nerve, showing up like this."

Billy bit back a sarcastic retort and took a slow, deep breath. "I'm sorry. I can explain."

The look on Annie's face made it clear she didn't believe him. Instead, she turned on one heel, her blue denim dress twirling at her knees, and stormed toward the sofa. Dust fluttered as she dropped onto a cushion and crossed her legs. "Alright, then, Bill, explain. I want you to make it crystal clear, what it was you were doing while I was sitting here worrying myself sick."

The Bostonian cautiously settled beside her. "I... well. I ran into some friends at the track."

"Friends."

"Yeah." Billy ran a hand over his head, pausing at the smooth scar where Niklas had re-formed his skull. "From the gig in New Mexico. They patched me up. I didn't mean to make y'worry. I came back here as quick as I could."

The smell of stewed tomatoes and oregano drifted through the room, a smoky reminder of the spaghetti that had served as dinner the night before. A thin, gurgling whine rose from Billy's stomach, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since before the race – if a carton of apple juice and half a donut could even be considered food.

"And here I am, waiting by the phone for you to call, and _you're out with friends! _And all I'm getting are horrible messages from everyone about wakes and funerals and what time to meet at Eddie's house for the viewing…" The words trailed off, muffled by her thin, pale hands.

Billy frowned. "Are we still talkin' about me?"

She really started to cry then, releasing a deluge of huge, wracking sobs hidden behind a sheet of brown ringlets. The couch creaked as she pressed against the arm rest, knees drawn up so she could curl into a tight ball.

Hesitantly, Billy leaned sideways and laid a hand on her shoulder. To his relief, she didn't pull away. "Annie?"

"Frank called." Annie's voice cracked, forcing her to take a deep breath before continuing. "Eddie… he died yesterday. Frank didn't say too much about how, but he said the doctor… the doctor killed him. In surgery."

Billy's frown deepened. "Your uncle Eddie?"

A nod.

"Then… wasn't he, y'know, the one runnin' all the Cabrone stuff?"

Annie hugged herself tighter, forcing back a whimper that threatened to become an all-out wail. "Yes."

"Then what happens now?"

"Dad'll take over for him, at least for a little while." Sniffling, Annie pulled herself into a semi-sitting position and stretched over the couch arm to fish for a tissue. "He's the younger brother, so that's what happens, I guess. That's what Frank was saying, at least. I haven't talked to Dad since Monday. And he said… he said Dad wants to meet you. Said the family needs to know where it stands on its… relationships."

The Bostonian laughed. "They know as well as we do that I ain't got two nickels to rub together. No connections past seven brothers with ten brats between 'em. Nothin' for them to worry over."

"He wants to meet you."

The thought of meeting Schultz Cabrone was enough to make Billy's stomach tighten. "Sweetheart, we've only been together six months. Isn't it, I dunno, a little soon to bring me home to ma and dad?"

A pair of red-rimmed green eyes met his. "He doesn't take no for an answer."

A wave of full-fledged concern hit the Bostonian. He twisted his lips into a smile, managing a weak chuckle that brought a glimmer of hope to Annie's eyes. "I guess I better dig the iron out then, huh?"

Annie let out a deep breath, twisting so her head rested against Billy's collarbone. He flinched as the pressure tugged at the newly-formed skin that stretched across his midsection. But if Annie noticed the tension in his shoulders or the way his fists were clenched in his lap, she didn't show it.

"I'm glad you're okay, Bill."

"Yeah." Without realizing it, he rubbed at the scar on his head. "Me too."

(-)

A sheet of clouds hid the rising sun outside Conagher's apartment. Outside, Lawrence slumped over a grubby payphone, one hand against his forehead and his shoulders hunched to keep out the drizzling rain. A crumpled receipt with a handful of scribbled numbers across the back was clenched in the hand holding the receiver. He spoke so softly that Conagher had to lean in just to hear what was being said.

"Yes, miss, I know. I- yes. Yes." The Australian closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath. On the other end of the line, a low voice rattled at breakneck speed, darkening Lawrence's mood with each passing word. "I understand, really, I do, but-"

The voice rose into a hiss. Lawrence held the phone away from his ear, for all the world looking like a half-drowned rat tossed into the street and given a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

"I don't _care_ what kind of complications you're having, Mundy. I expect you – all of you – on the train to Teufort Friday morning." Even through the phone, Helen's voice made Lawrence feel as though he was about to get a bullet to the back of the skull. "There's no time to train any newcomers. Either you all come back, or don't come back at all."

A loud crack sounded on the other end of the line. Wincing, Lawrence set the phone back on its receiver and cast a helpless look in his friend's direction.

"Well that settles that, I suppose." Conagher clapped a clammy hand on Lawrence's shoulder and steered him back toward the apartment. Together, they trudged back inside, pausing only for Lawrence to shake himself like a dog on the mat.

"So what do we do now?" Lawrence ran a hand through his rain-slicked hair, eyeing Conagher hopefully. "You were always the one with the fancy ideas."

"'Course I have an idea." Congather smiled. Truth be told, he had no idea what was going to happen if they couldn't convince Antoine or Billy to head back to Teufort. With one class missing, they might have managed, but with two…

No, he needed to be honest with himself, at least. With two of their nine-man crew gone, they were as good as dead, especially now that Helen knew they were having trouble getting two of their men back. But Lawrence didn't need to know that. All Lawrence needed was to see was the Texan's confidant smile and hear a promise that they'd figure the situation out.

"First things first, I reckon we ought to pay Walsch a visit. See if we can convince him to come with us."

"Problem with that, mate, is findin' where he lives."

Conagher waved a hand in the air. "That's easy. I have his address."

"…And how'd you manage that?"

A sheepish look flitted across Conagher's face. "Found his wallet on the bathroom sink. He must've taken it out when he was cleaning up. Way I reckon, an honest man'd make it a point to return it to him. If any kind of coercion takes place while that honest man happens to be there, well… that's just coincidence."

Lawrence chuckled, his expression brightening beneath the thin sheen of rainwater. "You're a genius, mate."

The wall loomed in front of the Texan. Without realizing it, he'd begun pacing. He spun on a heel and continued back across the apartment lobby. "If we send one group of guys after Walsch, another one can go find Antoine. Probably the Doc, since he's the only one who knows where he lives. Then we get 'em to come with us, even if it means hog-tying 'em and stuffin' 'em in a suitcase."

The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. The Texan had never been one to take things lying down – sure, sitting back and enjoying the carnage, but _never_ lying down. And he'd already made the commitment to go back to the dusty little patch of barren earth they'd called home for years. Trading an uneventful, unfulfilling life in a one-bedroom apartment for a second chance at what he did best: building machines that killed people in the fastest, most efficient way possible.

Another turn. It wasn't like he could back out now, anyway. It had been two days since he'd slammed his resignation down on the principal's desk and, without a word, left the building. There was no going back, even if he wanted to. No more half-built birdhouses or leaning towel racks. No more huddling in a cramped utility closet, building his babies in near-darkness and praying no one ever decided to come in without knocking.

God, he was ready.

Wordlessly, Conagher jerked his head toward the stairs, following Lawrence when the Australian took the lead and headed toward the second floor. They climbed in silence, the tall, lanky man and his stocky companion both lost in their own thoughts.

Niklas met them in the hall, his expression stormy. "Ve have a problem."

"We have a lot of problems, Doc." Conagher flung his coat onto the counter. "I reckon one more won't make any difference."

"Ze Soldier is gone." The doctor ran a hand through his mussed hair, his other hand swinging a pair of wire-frame glasses open. "Left just before you two came back inside."

It took Lawrence a moment to realize what the doctor was saying. Once the words hit home, he straightened, the all-too-familiar tension settling itself in his shoulders. "What do you mean, gone?"

Niklas shoved a folded sheet of paper in Lawrence's direction. "Read zat."

Conagher leaned over Lawrence's shoulder as the Australian smoothed the paper against the counter. A fancy, swirled letterhead dominated the paper's top left corner, enveloping a pair of bold letter 'M's. Beneath it was a single paragraph, single-spaced and signed with a looping, illegible scrawl.

** Mister Doe;**

** Thank you for taking the time to write to me. I am very intrigued at your situation, and if you would be so kind, I would like to meet with you personally to discuss your letter. Included in this envelope you will find a card with my address. I will expect you at half-past two next Wednesday, November the 16th. I look forward to speaking with you in person.**

A shiver crawled up Lawrence's spine. Behind him, a frustrated sigh suggested Conagher had finished the letter too. He re-folded the paper, fighting the urge to crumple it in a ball and stomp it into oblivion?

Instead, he settled for fixing a pointed stare at the doctor. "Do you have any idea where he went?"

Niklas shook his head. "I don't know how he got ze letter in ze first place. Someone knocked on ze door, handed ze letter to him, and left."

"Who the hell would that idiot be writing to in the first place?" Conagher leaned back against the counter, arms crossed.

"I don't..." Lawrence's eyes widened. "Wait."

He shoved past the two men, scrambling through the living room. Ignoring a pair of protesting shouts from Ivan and DeGroot, both of whom were still semi-asleep on the carpet, he dropped to his knees on the pile of blankets that had served as Doe's pallet. Digging through the layers of fabric, he finally found what he was looking for – a handful of papers stapled together in the corner.

He spread the papers around him, leaning forward and studying each one in turn. Finally, his eyes settled on the one he wanted. He held the sheet up for Conagher and Niklas to see. "Here."

There, directly in the middle of the page, was the same insignia as the one printed on Doe's letter.

"He wrote to Miss Middy Magazine," Lawrence's words came out as a disbelieving chuckle. "And I dunno why, but whatever he wrote got her attention. Enough for her to want to talk to him personally."

Conagher ran a hand over his face. "Sounds like we're goin' after three men, now."

Lawrence made a face. They had less than two days to find the three of them – and that didn't even count the time it would take to hunt down the Pyro. "We better get movin', then. Start with the Runner... havin' his address will make that part easier, at least. Then we can go after the other two."

Niklas cleared his throat. "Give me ten minutes and I'll be ready."

(-)

Billy clenched Annie's hand so hard she winced, pulling away from his grasp and sending a furious glare in his direction. They'd spent most of the evening cleaning the tiny apartment, scrubbing stains out of the carpet that didn't even exist until the blinds were open. And they'd done that too, flooding the living room with light that made it look even more grubby and gray. He doubted his skin would ever be the same, after who-knew how many rounds of running a soapy dishrag over the sheet rock walls and cloudy windows.

Together, the pair stared at the front door. The Bostonian could feel Annie's tension, even though she now stood a foot or so away. According to the tiny aluminum clock on the far wall, they had less than a minute until Schultz Cabrone's arrival.

And Schultz Cabrone was never late.

The seconds ticked by, punctuated by the occasional car horn from the streets below. Billy fidgeted with the scratchy cotton shirt buttoned up to his throat. His face felt hot. He needed to get out and run, feel the air on his face, clear his head for the second time in twenty-four hours.

Weren't major life events supposed to be a little more spread apart?

Heavy knuckles rapped on the apartment door. Billy froze, eyes wide as Annie took a deep breath and pulled the door open, her face set in a wide smile.

"Dad!"

An enormous, white-faced man sidled into the apartment, his cold eyes narrow beneath a ruler-straight fringe of brown hair. He eyed the room around him, lip curling in distaste. But he smiled when Annie flung herself at his midsection and wrapped her arms around him, and the warmth in his voice was almost enough to loosen the grapefruit-sized knot in Billy's stomach. "Annabelle."

Shadows flickered outside the still-open door. When Billy chanced a look, he saw the silhouettes of at least three more men, poised just outside the apartment like they were standing at attention. Apparently Schultz Cabrone was the kind of man who never went anywhere without backup.

"Dad, this is Bill Walsch, my, ah... my friend. Bill, this is my dad."

Schultz extended an enormous hand in Billy's direction. "I must say, it's nice to finally meet you. Annabelle's told me a lot about you."

The Bostonian couldn't help but grin at the way Annie's cheeks reddened at that statement. He shook Schultz's hand, trying not to feel intimidated by the man's vice-like grip. "Nice t'meet ya."

They strolled through the entryway, allowing Schultz to settle on the couch and Annie and Billy to anxiously stand in front of him. Billy shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

It was Annie who broke the silence. She dropped onto the cushion beside her father, taking his hand in hers. "Dad, what happened to Eddie? They wouldn't tell me anything about it, but... but I want to know."

Schultz's eyes narrowed. "It was supposed to be a heart transplant. Everyone said the doctor was the best there was – even better than what someone would find in a hospital. People recovered... in an instant, they said. They were calling him a miracle worker. He assured all of us that Eddie would be fine."

"Except..."

"I wasn't there," Schultz said, shaking his head. "But from what Eddie's people told me, as soon as that first incision, he just... he was gone. The one cut was all it took. The doctor... the doctor killed him."

Rage flickered in the man's eyes. "And if I find him, so help me, I'm going to make him wish he was never born."

(-)

"Vell, here ve are." Niklas looked up at the set of two-story apartments that, according to Conagher, housed the former scout and his girl. "Shall ve go inside?"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: <strong>Dun dun DUUUUN.

I'm back! Naka-Kon was great, and the best part was getting to meet a few of the awesome people who follow this story! Seriously, having you guys come up and say hi made my weekend. A big shout out to **Adri Nyx**, the reader-slash-epic Soldier Saturday and equally epic Egypt Sunday! And for those of you I talked to who lurk, or whose usernames I didn't catch, you guys rock. ^_^

p.s. Short story will be posted tomorrow. Kinda... forgot to save it to my USB stick. ^^;


	17. Chapter 16

Billy perched on the end of the sofa, elbows on his knees. Beside him, Annie leaned closer to her father, the two discussing Eddie's death in hushed, somber voices.

"Frank was there when it happened." Schultz ran a hand over his head. "He said the doctor – Frank said Eddie called him Schröder – belted Eddie to that long table he kept in his upstairs office. And that son of a-" Schultz closed his eyes and shook his head before continuing. "-he didn't do the… what's it called… anesthetic? Said Eddie wouldn't need it. It wasn't 'til Frank insisted that the doctor stopped trying to cut Eddie open while he was awake, and then Frank had to use what Eddie already had in the medicine cabinet. Washed down three of those big horse pills with a shot of whiskey."

The Bostonian fought the urge to bounce a knee.

"And even then, Schröder only waited a few minutes before he just… stuck a knife in Eddie's chest. No prep, no nothing. I mean, I know Eddie wanted something under the table, but this Schröder was supposed to be the best money could buy. But Frank said the guy just stood there, staring at Eddie while he convulsed on the table. Said he used some kind of pen-"

All three of them jumped when a sharp rap sounded against the apartment door. Schultz's eyebrows knitted.

"Expecting visitors?"

"No, but it's fine. I'll get it." Grateful for the distraction, Billy leapt from his seat and hurried to swing the door open.

"Hey, Walsch. Y'all left this at my place." Conagher said, smiling and holding the wallet up in one hand. Lawrence waved from behind the Texan's left shoulder, revealing Niklas on the other side. The doctor's eyes never left the suited men that lined the hallway to the apartment door.

The Texan's smile faded when he saw the expression of the man seated on the sofa. "Er, we didn't mean to interrupt anything. Just comin' to visit Walsch here. Old friends, from work. Hah."

"So _you're_ the ones he was out with?" Annie, her smile too wide and eyes too bright, vaulted off the couch and crossed the room. "I'd been… I've been begging Billy to tell me more about you."

Silence filled the room as Billy shifted from one foot to the other. After several seconds, Annie cleared her throat.

"Aren't you going to introduce me?"

"Right." Billy shifted from one foot to the other. "This is… uh…"

"Dale Conagher." Though the Texan's smile was genuine, his eyes darted from Billy to the enormous man perched on the edge of the couch. Something about the man's demeanor made Conagher's stomach crawl. "Nice to meet you. This here's my buddy Lawrence Mundy, and the guy in the back is Niklas Schröder."

"Schröder?" The word was whisper-soft and venomous, and came from the other side of the room.

Conagher's eyes shot to the man in the living room. But it was Niklas who was the recipient of Schultz Cabrone's intent stare. The newly-named mob boss climbed to his feet, his too-pale face made even brighter by the harsh light let in through the windows. When he spoke his voice was deadly soft.

"Eddie Cabrone."

The name was enough to drain the color from Niklas's face. Without taking his eyes off the mob boss, the doctor wrapped one hand around the door knob, pulling it open behind him. But before he could step outside, the three suited men lining the hallway shifted, completely blocking the three former mercenaries' only exit.

"So it was you." As he spoke, Schultz crept toward Niklas, his fingers twitching. "I thought I recognized you."

"Wait." Billy turned, locking eyes with the doctor. "That was you? You're the quack that killed-"

"It vas not intentional," Niklas said, squaring his shoulders in an attempt to stand as tall as the man now looming over him. Silently, Conagher and Lawrence stepped sideways so the three of them stood in an even row.

The air seemed to buzz with tension, leaving Billy and Annie frozen in the doorway to the apartment's tiny entryway. Their eyes shot from one side of the apartment to the other – from the three former mercenaries who seemed to be growing more nervous by the second, and the dark-eyed mob boss creeping toward them like a shark approaching its prey.

Conagher put his hands in the air, a nervous chuckle working its way through his lips. "C'mon, gents. Let's not get carried away here, alright?"

"You killed my brother."

"I vould never kill a client on purpose," Niklas hissed. Though the doctor's years of practice had left a trail of bodies at least a hundred yards long, he would never have dared to intentionally kill a man who paid him so well. "I don't know vat happened."

And that, too, was true. In the days following Eddie Cabrone's death, the former medic had spent hours rehashing every detail of the botched transplant in his head. And none of it made sense. The moment the doctor's scalpel had pushed through Eddie Cabrone's flesh, the man had flat lined. No breath, no pulse, no brain function even with help from the medi-pen.

Schultz jabbed the doctor in the sternum with a meaty finger. "Liar."

Niklas stiffened. The penknife felt heavy in his pocket, and at that moment he was glad he hadn't left it at the apartment. "I vould suggest you not touch me again."

"Oho," Schultz chuckled. "I'll do more'n touch you."

Schultz's words turned into a snarl. He lunged toward the doctor, hands outstretched, only to be shoved back by Conagher and Lawrence, who then spun to face the men behind them.

One apiece. Not bad odds, considering the ones they'd faced in their fighting days. Sure, they weaponless – and the mob thugs had at least one gun between the three of them – but the odds certainly could have been worse.

As if by some unspoken signal, the room erupted in motion. Two of the men rounded on Conagher, who nimbly darted between them and turned, fists raised. Lawrence grabbed the third man by the collar and, throwing his weight backwards, slung him against the floor.

A high-pitched shriek filled the air, and it took Billy a moment to realize it was coming from the woman beside him.

Reason told the Bostonian not to get involved. Logic and common sense screamed in his head, demanding he remember everything he'd worked for in the past two years. For the stable life, for a steady paycheck that didn't depend on a headcount.

For Annie.

So fast he didn't even realize he was doing it, Billy's hand shot toward the open coat closet, wrapping around the scuffed wooden bat he kept for the occasional game with his brothers. He jumped between Conagher's second attacker, ducking a punch directed at the Texan, and shifted his grip on the bat as he moved.

It wasn't a Mann Co. product, but it would do.

The next punch came directly at the Bostonian's face. He laughed once, shifted his weight, and brought the bat down on his attacker's elbow with an earsplitting crack. An anguished howl met Billy's ears, followed by a thud as the man's gun hit the floor.

"Gotta say, guys, I missed this!" Billy tossed the bat end-over-end, catching it with both hands. He swung hard at the thug's skull and was rewarded with the sound of wood shattering bone.

"That the best you got?" Billy swung his arms back, jerking his chin at the man who, without his gun, didn't seem too keen on squaring off with the scrawny Bostonian.

Across the room, Lawrence wasn't faring so well. He'd never been much of a fist fighter, preferring to let long-range projectiles do the fighting for him, and it didn't help that the largest of Schultz's cronies had decided to round on him. For a man who had to be at least six and a half feet tall, the thug was light on his feet, dancing around the Australian like an expert boxer.

Lawrence fought to move slowly, turning in a circle to match his attacker's movements. What was it Doe had said, years ago in Teufort's barracks, when Lawrence had approached him about learning how to fistfight?

Right. Cover your face. Lawrence's fists came up, hovering level with his cheekbones.

On the other side of the couch, Conagher's fist collided with the short man's jaw. He stepped back, shaking his fist, and delivered a less-than-sporting knee to the man's groin. A triumphant smile flitted across the Texan's face as his attacker dropped to his knees with a groan.

Lawrence jerked his head to avoid a punch. The fist whizzed by his ear, and the Australian scurried backward, still gamely keeping his fists at his cheeks, but before he could conjure up any more memories of that fateful, bruise-laced boxing lesson, something bounced against his foot. He jumped, only to breathe a sigh of relief when he chanced a glance at the floor and saw it was a gun.

"Thought you might could use that," Billy yelled, giving the Texan a thumbs-up with one hand as the other continued to round on his attacker with the bat.

Lawrence tried to drop, only to feel a plate-sized fist connect with his collarbone. Something cracked beneath his skin, and he gasped, dropping a hand to press against what felt like a dozen knives burrowing themselves into his chest.

That was all the opening Lawrence's attacker needed. With a throaty grunt, he smashed a fist into the Australian's face, sending the man sprawling to the floor. Next came a series of stomps aimed at his midsection.

Lawrence barely had time to register the slur of expletives that poured from Conagher's side of the room before a high-pitched ringing shrieked through his ears. Blinking through the blood that dripped from his forehead, he hunted for the gun, feeling the carpet around him.

His attacker's boot loomed over his head.

Lawrence's fingers closed around the gun handle. He swung onto his back, pointed, pulled the trigger.

As the gun barrel flashed, Lawrence couldn't help but agree with Billy's earlier statement. Despite the fact that half his face felt smashed in, Lawrence _had_ missed the pounding of adrenaline in his ears, and the feel of a firearm recoiling against his hand.

God, maybe he was just as crazy as the rest of them.

His attacker shrieked as the bullet shattered a kneecap. An instant later, what felt like four hundred pounds of dead weight hit the Australian, knocking out what little air was left in his lungs. Using his legs as leverage, Lawrence shoved the writhing man away and climbed to his feet, gripping the back of the couch like a lifeline.

"Enough!"

The room went still. Lawrence stared, open-mouthed, at the bloody mess that huddled in front of Billy, who held the red-stained bat in one hand. The Bostonian's eyes were locked on the hulking form of Schultz Cabrone, who stood in the entryway, an arm locked around Niklas's throat. In his free hand, the mob boss held a pearl-handled pistol, its barrel pointed directly at the doctor's temple. Niklas's penknife hit the coffee table and rolled until its bladed end hung halfway off the edge.

The man who had attacked Conagher stood, his face contorted with rage. He flung himself at the Texan, who scrambled backward so fast he smacked into the wall.

A shot rang through the room.

"I said, enough," Schultz said, swinging the pistol away from the now-shattered window and pressing it back against Niklas's skin, so hard the former mercenaries could see the doctor's pulse throbbing around it.

Taking slow, calculated steps, Schultz tugged Niklas across the living room. The gun pointed at the doctor's temple never wavered.

"I like to consider myself a reasonable man." Schultz tightened his grip on Niklas's neck, so that each swing made the doctor's face turn blue. "As a reasonable man, I find it… unwise, to make enemies when it is not absolutely necessary.

"This man –" Schultz jerked an arm, sending Niklas bobbing up and down, "- appears to be your friend. That much, I understand. Sympathize, even. But aside from your choice in company, I have no issues with the two of you. Or you, Bill, even though you seemed to have turned one of my men into hamburger meat."

Billy glanced at the whimpering, bloody man at his feet. As far as he could tell, the mob crony would live, but he'd come out of the fight a lot uglier than before.

Schultz chuckled. "Kind of lost control there, eh boy? I have to say, Annie never mentioned your… temper."

Annie! Billy's eyes shot to the space between the couch's arm and the wall, where Annie huddled, her face streaked with tears. When his gaze fell on her, she flinched, pressing herself against the wall as if she could disappear along it. A lump formed in Billy's throat.

"Annie?"

But before she could reply, Schultz stepped in front of the couch, obscuring her from Billy's view.

"There are more pressing matters to attend to, boy," Schultz said. Niklas still hung at the mob boss's arm, fingers feebly scrambling to free himself from Schultz's iron grip. "I have unfinished business with this fellow here, and I intend to carry it out. You – and I'm including you in that too, Bill – can leave me to it, or you can get in the way. The outcome'll be the same for this one here-" Another tug on Niklas's throat, "-but what happens after that is entirely up to you."

"Let's not get carried away, mate." Wincing, Lawrence attempted a step toward Schultz, only to be sent scurrying back as Schultz's thumb cocked the pistol hammer. As he moved, his hand banged against coffee table.

"Don't even try it, Mandy."

"Mundy."

Fury flashed through Schultz's eyes. "Whatever your name is. Now, the three of you can leave, and Doctor Schröder can come with me, and you can go on with whatever it is you do."

"There's no way in hell we're leavin' him behind," Conagher snarled, his hands balled into fists. "I don't care if I have to beat you to death with my own hands."

Schultz shrugged. "Have it your way, then."

Smiling, the mob boss shifted so Niklas's face was pointed up. Schultz tilted his head to one side, studying the doctor for a moment before he spoke.

"Much as I'd liked to cut you into a hundred pieces, your friends being here means I'll need to be a little faster in… disposing of you. Lucky for you, I suppose."

The trigger twitched against Schultz's fingers. Something silver flashed through the air, whizzing past Conagher's face like a tiny missile.

Schultz frowned.

Then he fell.

With a shriek, Annie scrambled forward on her hands and knees, grabbing at the prone form of her father, who now sported Niklas's penknife, buried to the hilt in the hollow at the base of his throat. Across the room, Lawrence slowly lowered his arm, his sunglasses glinting. Despite the pain burning through his chest, a smirk, unbidden, tugged at his lips.

Yeah. He still had it.

The three mob cronies stared at their fallen leader, their faces set in varying degrees of shock and horror. But before they could react, a wail pierced the air. The sound was distant, but it grew louder with each passing moment, until it drowned out the gurgling noises coming from Schultz.

"Someone called the cops." The uninjured crony stiffened, casting an irritated gaze at his two companions. He hurried toward Schultz and heaved him onto one shoulder, his eyes falling on Niklas, who knelt on the floor and rubbed at his throat. "This isn't over." Then, with a glance over his shoulder, "Steven, get the girl out of here."

Billy snarled and lurched forward as the mob thug he'd bloodied pulled Annie to her feet. He made it half a step before being yanked back by Lawrence's shaking hand.

"We gotta get out of here, mate."

Conagher hooked the Bostonian by an arm, dragging him toward the apartment door. Billy dug his heels into the carpet, fighting to pull free from their grip.

"Annie!" His voice echoed through the apartment's gray hall.

"C'mon, kid. You can find her later."

At that, Billy broke free from Conagher, snarling in frustration. The Texan spun to stop him, but Billy was already gone, thundering down the hallway and flinging the apartment door open.

"Annie!"

The room was empty.

The Bostonian's eyes trailed to the shattered window. Through the fluttering curtains, he could see the fire escape, its rusted iron frame swinging against the brick wall outside. He crossed the room in a heartbeat and, ignoring the broken glass lining the window, and stuck his head outside.

Blood streaked across the escape floor, leading to the stairs where it collected on each step in red-black pools. Below, a black car spun its tires in the alley below, screeching into the street and disappearing around the corner in a cloud of white smoke. The smell of burning rubber drifted up to the window.

Billy's eyes stung.

She was gone.

(-)

Niklas's breath came in ragged gasps as he fought to keep up with his companions. A violet bruise bloomed along his throat, evidence of his time spent in Schultz's grip. The skin on his temple throbbed – in the moments after Schultz had fired a shot through the window, the barrel had been red-hot, and Niklas had the burn to prove it.

Beside him, Lawrence dug around in his pocket for the van's keys. The knife-sharp pain in his chest had faded into a dull throb that reappeared each time he exhaled. He wasn't sure if it was shock or nerve damage, but he was grateful for the break.

"Do us a favor, mate." Lawrence took a deep breath. "Next time you decide to kill someone, make sure we know beforehand if _their_ mates are gonna try to kill us back."

The doctor shook his head. "I didn't kill Herr Cabrone. At first, I thought maybe it vas me… I should have realized it sooner."

"Then what happened?"

"Arsenic." The word left Niklas as a sigh. "Or somesing similar to it. Ze convulsions, ze obvious organ damage ven I tried to go deeper so I could use ze medi-pen. He told me, before I started ze procedure, zat he had a headache. I sought it vas nerves. Ze pain pills must have been ze final straw. I don't know who killed Herr Cabrone, but it vas not me."

"And when'd you figure that out?"

Niklas gave Lawrence a sidelong look. "You'd be surprised, vat you sink of ven someone's strangling you."

Someone pushed past the doctor's shoulder. When Niklas turned, he saw Billy, his face

impassive as he shot past the three staggering men. "Put a move on, lard asses. Like you said, we've got to get out of here."

The wind whipped at Billy's face, its whistling nearly drowning out the approaching sirens. Despite everything that had happened in the last half hour, Billy couldn't help but feel relieved. He'd never gotten himself into a situation that couldn't be solved by running right back out.

But a sound followed Billy as he ran, leading the limping pack of mercenaries back to the relative safety of the van.

The soft, ragged sound of Annie weeping.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong>In-game Scout aggravates me to no end, from his taunts to his sound bites to every single freaking time someone bonks me and I die in a flurry of fire/rockets/bullets. But the more I write Billy-as-Scout, the more I sympathize with the character. So this chapter kind of hurt to write.

You can thank **Vaughnd22** reminding me to elaborate on Eddie Cabrone's death. I'm paraphrasing here, but he sent me a message asking how one of the best doctors in the northern hemisphere could 'accidentally' kill a man and not know how it happened. It never made it into the story until now, but I've known Eddie died from arsenic poisoning since Niklas's first chapter. And he couldn't save Eddie because the medi-pen isn't quite as potent as the medigun and couldn't combat the effects of arsenic, which basically destroys a person's liver, lungs and kidneys. As a writer, sometimes I squirrel things away and forget to let the reader in on it, and I appreciate it when people let me know I've left something like that open. That said, if you really want to know who killed Eddie Cabrone… it was Frank, Eddie's right-hand man. And now he'll set his sights on Schultz (who isn't dead, mind you), but I haven't thought too much further than that, since their parts in this story are over.

Hope you guys enjoyed. This was a monster to write – in the last week I've rewritten it at least four times, and I could rewrite it a dozen more and still not be satisfied with it. See you next week!

_Edit:_ I'm not sure what's going on, but for some reason the site's not wanting to show the new chapter for some people. For those of you who are subscribed to it - if you get more than just the one email about the story, I'm sorry.


	18. Chapter 18

DeGroot bit into his egg-and-sausage burrito, careful to keep the drippings isolated to a paper plate he'd situated on the counter. The television muttered in the background, its screen dominated by a stucco apartment complex reflecting the red and blue lights of a dozen police cruisers. A reporter stood a few yards away – the same one who had made such a fuss at his tavern, DeGroot noticed with a scowl – and yammered into a microphone, his face lit with the promise of mayhem.

"Diane, I can't tell you too much right now, but a witness said police stormed this apartment building about ten minutes ago after receiving dozens of calls about gunshots in one of the residences."

Tavish's eyes traveled to Ivan, who sat at the counter beside him. The enormous man's hands wrapped around a half-frozen waffle. Its frosty surface matched the scowl on Ivan's face.

"What's eatin' at yeh?" DeGroot nudged at Ivan with an elbow. "Y'look like yeh just lost yer best friend."

"This is terrible breakfast," the Russian replied, dropping the waffle with a grunt. It hit the countertop with a thud. "Ivan make better, but all Engineer has in pantry is coffee and soup and dirty magazines."

The Scotsman couldn't think of anything to say to that.

"And…" Ivan heaved a sigh. "And Ivan always being left behind. In old days, Ivan was best of team. Always had Doctor! Rest of team kept an eye out for Ivan, for nasty Spies or stupid BLU Scout coming with bat. But now… Ivan left in house. Like dog, or weird aunt no one talks about."

Tavish shrugged. "They left me too, y'know. Mebbe they didn't fancy wakin' us up."

The television flickered as the camera panned to a woman who appeared to be in her mid-sixties. Her bony fingers wrapped around the microphone, clutching it to her bathrobe-clad chest.

"I hears it," she said, speaking through a mouth mostly devoid of teeth. "Three shots, just like during the gang wars in forty-six. So I says to myself, 'Mary, you should call the law. You has an obligation.' I goes to the door, to see what I can see. Then a buncha men come runnin' outta six-nineteen, all bloody like they'd just been in a scrap. I tells you, this place been goin' downhill for ten years, ever since Marty Lembke sold it to that married couple from upstate. Just last week, I calls 'em six times, _six times, _'cause six-oh-four has that… what's it called, _rock and roll_ on after nine! When some of us is tryin' to sleep!"

The reporter's smile grew strained. He chuckled and reached for the microphone, only to have the woman twist away from his grasp.

"Aha… Diane, while I wrap things up here, you might mention one of the suspicious vehicles spotted at the scene."

"Right, Ben." A blonde woman in a business suit appeared on the screen. "Police are searching for this van, which has been spotted in several locations throughout the city over the last few days. Right now, they're unsure as to whether-"

DeGroot changed the channel, replacing the anchor with a series of brightly-colored, bouncing animals. He cleared his throat and took a swig of orange juice, mixed with whatever liquor he'd been able to find in Conagher's refrigerator. DeGroot swirled his drink, eyeing its runny contents. For a cowboy, the Texan had very little in the form of spirits, and what the man did have was, in DeGroot's opinion, laughably weak.

Beside DeGroot, Ivan shifted, carefully emptying another bottle of maple syrup onto his plate. Once he'd set the bottle down, he speared a waffle and shoved it, whole, into his mouth.

"Dmmf mff, rrm ff-"

"Chew yer food, man. That's disgusting." DeGroot took another drink.

It took several seconds for Ivan to force the waffle down his throat. Finally the enormous man pounded his chest, coughed, and took a deep breath. "Is better?"

"Aye. Now what were y'sayin'?"

"Ivan say, only one left to find is Pyro, yes? Then we – you and me – go _get_ Pyro! They call us heros!" He smashed his fists on the countertop, sending drops of maple syrup spattering across it. "Then Doctor appreciate Ivan!"

"Sounds great, except neither of us knows where the Pryo is."

"Small details. We work those out on the way." Ivan hooked a meaty arm around Degroot's neck. "Come, Demo! Tonight our friends lift us up on shoulders and say, 'Huzzah, these men are strong like bear and smart like fox!'"

But before he could pull DeGroot from the bar stool, the apartment door swung open. Wordlessly, Billy walked inside, his eyes set on a patch of wall several inches above eye level. Behind him, Niklas and Conagher sidled through the door, supporting Lawrence between the two of them.

"Out of ze vay, Ivan," Niklas snapped. The medi-pen had done its job well and left the doctor's fractured collarbone good as new, but it had done little to brighten his mood.

Like a scolded puppy, Ivan shrank back against the wall as the two men, aided by DeGroot, half-dragged Lawrence to the couch. The moment they let go of his arms, the Australian collapsed on the cushions, landing in a heap of tangled legs and arms. The instant he stopped moving, Niklas knelt beside the couch and pulled the medi-pen out of his pocket.

"Er, doc? Shouldn't yeh have helped him before yeh dragged him up here?"

Niklas shot DeGroot a look that could have melted stone. "Ve had ozzer sings on our minds."

Conagher sighed and leaned against the wall. Slowly, he dropped until his knees pressed against his chin. "I gotta say, meetin' up with you guys again has certainly made my life more interesting."

Lawrence managed a weak chuckle that turned into a cough as Niklas jabbed the medi-pen against his ribcage. Light bloomed on the Australian's skin. "Yer right about that one, mate. What d'you suggest we do next?"

"Find Doe, I reckon. Or at least, some of us go find him. I reckon some of you might ought to head home and get yourselves packed." _And get the hell out of my apartment. _But Conagher didn't think that needed to be said.

"No worries on that," DeGroot said. "I lived above me bar. Doubt what's left in there is even worth goin' t'get."

Niklas straightened and dropped the medi-pen back into his pocket. On the couch, Lawrence breathed a sigh of relief and stretched.

"I vould assume my room is being vatched by ze Cabrones," Niklas's words were soft and matter-of-fact. "Vat I have here is all I need."

"And Ivan only have these clothes. At apartment, only had couch and goldfish." Ivan gasped. "_Goldfish! _Wait. No. That was pudding. Couch and pudding."

"But, uh, there's gotta be some way to get you guys out- I mean clothes!" The Texan's eyes widened. He leaned forward, digging into his back pocket and pulling his wallet out a moment later. "DeGroot. Here's fifty dollars. There's a thrift store on the corner of sixth and Franklin. Go... go get yourself a change of clothes. Ivan and Doc, too. Billy, do you need us to pick you anything up?"

The mercenaries' eyes trailed to the Bostonian, who still stood with his back to the room. He replied with a shrug. "Whatever's left there doesn't matter. I can't go back and get it anyway. The cops are all over the place."

"C'mon, son. It's not that bad."

"Right, I forgot. You guys barge back into my life, kidnap me, nearly kill my girlfriend's dad, and then drag me away before I can even make sure _she'_s okay. That's not bad at all."

Sighing, Conagher looked back at the others. "If Doc, Mundy and I go after Doe, and the rest of you-"

"No! Ivan come with you!" The words erupted from Ivan's throat like a roar. He crossed his arms and glared at Conagher, who let out another sigh.

"Fine. The rest of us will look for Doe." Climbing to his feet, the Texan crossed the room and picked up the tattered remains of the Miss Middy Magazine. "Surely there's some kind of address to submit letters. It can't be too hard to find, if Doe managed to send her something."

For several long moments, the Texan rifled through the loose pages, ignoring the men scattered around him. They had two days to make it to the train – _all_ of them, as Helen had so kind to remind them – and get back to the fort. And if they didn't make it-

-But no. Conagher wouldn't think about that. He was the problem solver, the one everyone looked to when something needed to be thought through. At least, that was how it had worked in the old days.

For what that was worth.

Finally, a tiny line of print caught his eye. "Here!"

He spread the page flat against the floor, pointing to a post office box number and a disclaimer that reminded anyone who wrote in that Miss Middy wasn't going to pay them a dime, ever.

"We start there. I reckon someone has to pick up the mail, right?" Smiling, he looked at the men around him. "Cheer up! We're still in this rodeo! We'll grab Doe, hunt down Pyro, and hog-tie Antoine if we have to. Now let's go. Post office closes in two hours, and it'll take at least fifteen minutes to get there now that we can't drive the van."

"We can't? Why?" Lawrence frowned.

"Because every cop in the tri-county area'll be keepin' their eyes peeled for it, I guarantee you. There's a bus station at the corner. We can get a ride to the post office there." Conagher stood. "Now come on."

(-)

A stained glass mural threw multi-colored light across the post office floor, turning most of the bench – and the mercenaries that sat on it – green. In the hour or so since they'd arrived, only a handful of people had come in, and none of them had even approached the rows of boxes that lined the back wall. The clerk, who had smiled at them when they'd come in, now eyed them suspiciously, as if she was concerned they were planning some kind of heist.

"This was bad idea."

"No, it wasn't. We just gotta be patient." Conagher shot Ivan a glare.

Lawrence didn't want to admit it, but he was starting to side with Ivan. Another hour, and they'd have to leave and call the entire afternoon wasted. And every hour gone meant one less hour until they had to be on that train. "Maybe there's another way to find 'im?"

The Texan shifted, bathing his left half in blue light. "No. This is the way to do it. I'm sure of..."

He trailed off in mid-sentence, eyes locked on the far side of the room. Slowly, Lawrence and Niklas followed his gaze.

A tall, thin figure in a trench coat and hood stood in front of the boxes, their shoulders hunched. The sound of jingling keys flittered through the room, followed by a heavy click.

"Can you tell which one they're opening?" Conagher whispered to Niklas, who sat at the other end of the bench.

"_Nein._ But it is at ze left side... zat is where Miss Middy's box is, _ja_?"

Conagher nodded. "I'll see if I can check."

With exaggerated slowness, Conagher stood, stretching his arms over his head and sidling toward the boxes. As he got closer, he made a show of stopping at a counter that held a stack of change of address forms.

The trenchcoat-wearing person locked their box and headed to the exit. Conagher watched them go, his eyes narrowed into slits. But as soon as the door swung shut behind the person, he sprang into action, bounding toward the men with a huge smile on his face.

"Come on!" He grabbed Ivan and, with some difficulty, pulled the enormous man to his feet. "That was the one! I _told _ you this would work! Let's go!"

They piled out of the building. To Conagher's immense relief, the person who had opened the box didn't get into a car, but instead turned and headed down the sidewalk. Doing their best to stay a safe distance behind their quarry, the former mercenaries scurried along the street behind him.

(-)

An enormous stucco house loomed ahead of them, surrounded on all sides by a six-foot-tall wrought-iron fence. Conagher stood in front of the gate, hands on his hips.

"I think we're in the right place," he said, nodding toward two letter M's situated in the middle of the gate. They spiraled around each other, blending into the fence until almost invisible.

"Is zere... some kind of bell? Or intercom?" Niklas leaned in to examine a small metal keypad soldered into the right side of the gate. "I sink... vould 'buzzer' be ze one to push?"

"Try it. We got nothin' to lose."

The doctor pressed a red button beneath the keypad. Almost immediately, a crackling sound came from a round grill on the side.

"Business, please?"

"Is this where Miss Middy lives?"

Silence. Then, a moment later, "Business, please."

"Uh, er, we're lookin' for a friend of ours," Lawrence rubbed at the back of his head. "Name's John Doe? He wrote to Miss Middy, and she invited him over, and we're kind of on a tight schedule."

The sounds of a scuffle came from the other end of the speaker. Something clattered, followed by a very familiar voice.

"Men! You have found me!"

"Doe? What do you think you're doing?" Conagher fought the urge to smash his fist into the gate. "We have to be on the train in two days, and you go runnin' off on us?"

"Pah! Only a coward leaves his men, and I am no coward! I am a lion! But not the cowardly type!" Doe laughed. "Besides, you'll _never_ guess who I found!"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: In response to **KingdomofThomond**'s review (and some other people have asked this, too), we're getting close to the mercs getting back to Teufort. This chapter ends mid-afternoon Thursday, and the train leaves at noon Saturday. I've been stretching the time quite a bit, since I do enjoy writing about the mercs' antics as they try to round each other up. If I had it to do over again, I'd have given them two weeks, or ten days to get everyone back together.

I'm really hoping whatever happened last week (for quite a few people, the new chapter wouldn't show in the story, even though it showed in the summary and their inboxes) doesn't happen this time. _**edit**_: It looks like the exact opposite is happening now - several people aren't getting alert emails. Blarg. Sorry, everyone. -_-; I'm not doing anything differently, I promise. It's just bad luck I guess.

Hope you enjoyed. See you next week.

_p.s._ Before anyone asks, there is no chapter seventeen. Having the chapters off by a number was driving me crazy, so we'll just call that 7v2 chapter eight, so following that chapter eighteen IS chapter eighteen. Like magic. One day I might go back and fix it, but right now I'm too lazy and trying not to cough up a lung, which has put me in a pretty terrible mood.


	19. Chapter 19

"Pauling, status report."

"Well, ma'am, you're the one who talked to the Sniper this mor-"

"I mean on the BLU team," Helen snapped, drumming pointed nails against the desk. "Have you made contact since they resurfaced?"

"Yes, ma'am, of course." Miss Pauling cautiously stepped forward and lowered herself into the chair opposite her boss. She clutched a ratty, scuffed clipboard to her chest like a shield. "They've been secretive, as we expected, but with some, er, persuasion, I did manage to have a quick discussion with the team's engineer."

"And?" Helen raised a thinly-plucked eyebrow. "Will they have an advantage? Do you think there's reason to believe the RED mercenaries will be able to hold their own after two years of downtime?"

Pauling took a deep breath, her gaze traveling up to the dozens of screens flickering above Helen's head. Before, when the Mann Corporation had the two teams fighting day in and day out, the televisions showed every square inch of RED and BLU territory. Now, every camera was pointed toward the BLU team's fort, scrutinizing the team's every move as Helen fought to ensure nothing unexpected would happen before the final match.

From her perch in the high-backed chair, Helen watched the woman across from her squirm and smiled.

"He – their engineer – built something called a Tripbot, ma'am. It... it's more of an alarm system than a piece of weaponry right now. But he's working on equipping it with some kind of system that would link it to the sentries."

"And how close is he to success?"

Pauling shrugged. "I stole the blueprints when he wasn't looking and put them in the safe. So he'll have to start from the ground up."

A small smile crept across Helen's lips. She'd taught Pauling well. "Very good. And the others?"

"I don't think they know the RED team is returning yet. Or if they do, they aren't concerned about it."

That particular piece of intelligence intrigued the Administrator. Her mind raced; she couldn't help but wonder what would happen if she leaked word to the BLU team – anonymously, of course – that their counterparts were returning, and the easy takeover of Redmond Mann's land would be anything but. Years of practice had left her hesitant to give either team an unfair advantage, but she relished the idea of letting mayhem unfold on both sides once the last fight began. The question was, which option would be the equal combination of profitability and absolute chaos?

A flicker of movement on one of the screens caught her eye. She turned to see the BLU engineer – who looked similar enough to Conagher for the resemblance to be uncanny, if not downright eerie – emerge from the fort, his face set in a deep scowl. Judging by his actions – and Helen was no lip-reader, but she had a feeling he was in the middle of a cursing fit – he'd discovered a certain assistant had disappeared with his blueprints.

"Do you think they'll pull it off? The RED team, I mean? They're down to their last 24 hours." Pauling shifted in the chair.

For a moment, Helen didn't reply. Instead, she leaned forward, lifting a half-finished cigarette to her lips. The end of the cigarette flared as she took a deep breath.

"I think they will." Each word was punctuated with a tendril of smoke. "They know better than to ignore us."

"And… and if they can't get the entire team here?"

"Then I make good on my word and send the rest of them away." Another long draw on the cigarette. "These men can't be shown any sign of weakness. They are heartless, soulless, brainless killing machines. Nothing, _nothing_ more."

(-)

Miles away, in a thrift store that reeked of mothballs and years-old perfume, DeGroot held a bright orange shirt up to his chest. The flower pattern made him look more like a flamboyant night club owner than a man who spent years of his life coordinating explosions.

"Does this color suit me? Always fancied meself an autumn."

A chipped cat statue narrowly missed the Scotsman's head, followed by a disgusted sigh from his young companion. When DeGroot straightened, he saw Billy stalking toward a wall of ancient cassette tapes.

"There's no need for meanness, lad." DeGroot took one last look at the shirt and replaced it on the rack. "Nothin' wrong with wantin' t'look yer best."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: <strong>Filler this time, sorry. But this week has been a beast. Since last Friday, my mom had surgery, my father-in-law had a liver transplant, I wound up with an upper respiratory infection that kicked my butt all week and left me in bed with a high fever for three days, and I gave my two weeks' notice at work.

(If you're curious, everything did work out okay – my mom and FiL are doing great, I feel better, and I'm changing to a part-time job that'll let me focus on my novel. My goal's to finish the first draft of that this year.)

In all fairness, I did try to get the next chapter written. I got halfway through it and realized I hated it, and by then I didn't have time to rewrite the entire thing. But because that chapter does, in fact, have a huge part to play in the plot overall, I want it done right.

Responding to some reviews:

**Namelesstreechan**, your review made my day! :D Seriously, it's always great to find out people are genuinely enjoying this story. It's tons of fun for me to write, but what really keeps me going is knowing other people are having fun too. And I'm sorry we couldn't meet at Naka! D: I am definitely planning on going next year, but if you're planning to go to Tokyo in Tulsa this summer (I hear a lot of Naka people make the trek to TnT, and vice versa) I'll be there too!

**Not an anon**, right now, this is the only incomplete story I have (even though I've been toying with the idea of a Meet the Pyro sequel, but that's a BIG if right now). I try to post all updates before noon my time (CST) on Fridays, even if it's something small and insignificant like this week's filler.

And no, I don't know why I always cut to Helen when I need to whip something up in a hurry. I don't really like her (or Pauling, for that matter), but for some reason those two are ridiculously easy to write.

See you guys next week. With any luck we'll be back on track plot-wise.


	20. Chapter 20

Doe looked like a six-year-old who had learned Christmas was coming early. He pranced down the hall, chuckling to himself and constantly glancing back to make sure Conagher, Lawrence and Niklas were still following. For their part, the three former mercenaries eyed the embroidered samplers – most of which involved kittens, butterflies, or butterfly-winged kittens – nervously.

"I swear I saw this place in a movie once," Lawrence muttered. "Next up is the part where we get cut into pieces and turned into pies."

Conagher coughed back a snort. "It's not _that_ bad."

"It's pretty bad, mate."

The hall opened into an enormous sitting room that looked like it belonged in a magazine. Floral-patterned loveseats sat in a half-moon shape, facing a brick fireplace bordered by two ceiling-length bookshelves. A tea set glinted on a low coffee table, whistling softly like it had just been taken off the stove.

But it was the person seated in an armchair at the far end of the room that caught the mercenaries' attention.

At first glance, they could have been a man or woman. They wore a loose-fitting pair of sweat pants and a baggy turtleneck that led up to a head of close-cropped red hair. An enormous, ruddy scar took up the majority of the person's face, drowning out their fine-boned jaw and smattering of freckles.

But the person's voice, when they spoke, was decidedly masculine. Kind of high-pitched for a man, in Conagher's opinion, but definitely male. He half-stood, his mouth twisting into the best smile the scar allowed. "Long time no see."

Conagher frowned. Something about this person seemed awfully familiar. But before he could ask, Niklas sprang forward and wrapped the man in a hug.

"Herr Fischer!"

"Hey, Doc." The man laughed and clapped the doctor on the back. One side of his mouth, Conagher noticed, stayed still as he spoke, slurring his words slightly. They weren't unrecognizable, but the Texan had to pay attention to understand what the man said.

The Texan realized the man's amber-colored eyes were focused on him. "'s matter, Eng? Don't recognize me?"

"Can't say I do. Have we met?" Recognition tugged at Conagher, but he still couldn't put a finger on where he'd met Fischer before. Beside him, recognition dawned across Lawrence's face.

"You! Strewth, it's _you_!"

Doe cackled. "Look at me, fixing everything. I should start charging for my services."

Finally, Fischer gave Conagher a pointed look, put a hand over his mouth, and spoke. "Hudda hudda hudda?"

That did it. The Texan's jaw dropped. "Pyro!"

"Martin Fischer, nowadays." Fischer smirked. "Or Martha Middy, depending on who you ask."

Conagher frowned. "You're Miss Middy?"

"Isn't it something?" Doe dropped onto the couch, sending a lace doily fluttering to the floor. "At first I was pissed. I mean, here I was baring my _soul_ to another man. I don't get off on that namby-pamby kumbaya crap. But then I found out it was this guy!"

Fischer chuckled. "You're talking to the writer of the number-one selling magazine in this part of the country. The last issue sold twelve thousand copies in its first week. The first _week_."

"But why-" Conagher trailed off. _Why write a column for lonely women_?

Fischer shrugged, as if he could read the Texan's mind. "Why not? It pays the bills. What Redmond paid me was more than enough to buy a house, and it just so happened some old spinster croaked just as I got into town. I snatched this place up at a steal, and they even threw in the furniture since I was paying cash. Then one day I'm going through her old pictures and I find one I really like. I turned it into the Miss Middy logo, and the rest is history."

"But how-"

"My assistant-" Fischer jerked his head toward the corner of the room, where a broad-shouldered man stood, arms crossed. The Texan immediately recognized him as the man from the post office. "-picks up the mail for me every day. I put it all together, send it to an editor, who sends it to some chick in L.A. who does all the layout stuff. It's a pretty sweet set up."

Conagher opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Of course the Pyro, who had gone to such great lengths to stay hidden – to the point where the others wondered if he was a woman, or a resurrected Abraham Lincoln, or a cyborg – would choose something out of the public eye. After years of having a gas mask filter planted in front of his face, it seemed logical to think the man would want to do something that involved people listening to him and, more importantly, being understood.

Lawrence and Niklas perched on opposite ends of the couch, allowing Doe to stretch out in the middle.

"One thing's bothering me, mate." The Australian turned a doily over in his hands. "Why'd you send for Doe? D'you invite all your writers over?"

"No. I-" Fischer's words were interrupted by a series of shuddering coughs that shot through him like shrapnel. For several seconds, he hunched against the chair, one hand at his chest and the other at his mouth.

Niklas frowned, but said nothing.

"That-" Fischer coughed once more, then cleared his throat. "That was a hunch. It was pretty obvious, really. Don't get too many letters from people asking if they should be concerned about nightmares involving their old collection of severed heads coming after them with rocket launchers and butterfly knives."

Conagher nodded. He had to admit, every bit of that sentence screamed John Doe's name.

"But I figured, if it _was_ Solly, it'd be nice to reconnect."

"And if it had not been Herr Doe, but some lunatic off ze street? Vat vould you have done zen?"

The redhead smiled. "I like to think I can take care of myself."

"Did Doe tell you we're gettin' the group back together and headed back to Teufort?"

"Yes."

Conagher's stomach tightened. When he glanced at Lawrence, he saw the Australian looked as tense as he felt. "And will you go?"

"I haven't quite decided yet. That's a big thing to spring on a person and expect an answer right off."

No one spoke after that. Instead, the former mercenaries stared at each other, unsure of what to say next, but not wanting to break the silence with small talk. Finally, Niklas took a deep breath and shifted on the couch.

"So vat else do you do? Surely you don't spend all your time replying to ze letters." He gestured around the lace-filled, spotless room. "You never struck me as ze, ah, type to be happy in a place like this."

"Naw, I keep it this way for the atmosphere. Adam gives tours here every other Sunday. Have to keep up appearances, you know." Fischer ran a hand through his russet hair. A small smile tugged at the unscarred side of his mouth, and he slowly pulled himself up from the chair. "But I will show you the back yard."

(-)

The pastel walls and lace borders disappeared once the men left the front part of the house. Instead, the walls were painted varying shades of gray, punctuated with what could only be sooty fingerprints. Fischer eyed those warily, casting a look back at his former coworkers as if to say, 'What more did you expect?'

The back door looked like it might have been white once, but it too was covered in a thin layer of old smoke and smudges. Fischer pulled it open, gesturing for the former mercenaries to follow him onto a concrete patio.

For a moment, Conagher could only gape at the stretch of back yard the patio overlooked. It could have passed for a scene from some war-torn country, with burned shells of vehicles twisted into crumpled heaps of metal and every inch of ground covered in flakes of ash, like shadowy snow. A privacy fence that stood at least fifteen feet tall surrounded it, blocking out any view of the world outside.

The other men were silent too. Even Doe was stunned, staring at the acre or so of wasteland in front of him.

"Old habits die hard," Fischer explained, crossing his arms self-consciously.

Conagher blinked several times. "How the hell did you do that to those cars? I saw the blueprints for your gear... there's no way you got temperatures hot enough to melt steel."

Fischer scoffed. "What Helen gave us was crap, and you know it. I drew up a new one. Puts the old stuff to shame."

When the Texan turned to look at Fischer, he realized the man was grinning from ear to ear. Nimbly, the redhead darted down the concrete steps and flung open the door to a stubby bunker set beside the house.

"This is what I've been working on." Fischer's voice was muffled. "Think I've got it about right."

Swinging the door shut behind him, Fishcer stepped out of the bunker with a long, thin piece of machinery balanced in one arm. He brought it back up the steps and pushed it into Conagher's arms.

The first thing the Texan noticed was how light the contraption was. The Pyro's first flamethrower weighed in at about ten pounds – which, he was sure, felt more like fifty after an entire day of lugging the thing around. But this new device couldn't have weighed more than five or six. He balanced it in one hand, running a hand over the streamlined tank and all-metal handle. Lawrence and Doe leaned in for a better look.

"How's it different?" Conagher looked up at Fischer, who rocked his weight from foot to foot.

"It's like night and day. For starters, it's more efficient." Reaching for the new flamethrower, Fischer took it in his arms and stroked the barrel, like a proud parent stroking their child's head. "It can run for ten minutes straight without needing a refill. That's twice as long as the old model. Range isn't so good – it only goes out about three feet, but the spread is better. And it burns three times as hot."

"How'd you manage that?" Conagher couldn't help it – he was intrigued. He took the flamethrower back, turning it over in his hands. "The pilot can't burn that hot or it'd melt the metal around it."

"There is no pilot." Something flickered in Fischer's eyes, and he chuckled then, a low, slow sound that took Conagher back to countless memories of burning limbs and endless screams. "It's all self-contained. Three chemicals in there – one that's an accelerant, one that reacts to that accelerant and sparks, and an adhesive that sticks to anything it comes into contact with. Combine them, and it's like napalm. Only worse... Napalm tops out around five thousand degrees Fahrenheit. This hits seven if I get the mixture just right."

Conagher swallowed. That kind of heat in a battlefield setting meant there would be no running around and flailing. There wouldn't be time for that – there wouldn't even be time for a person to register that they were on fire, before they were reduced to a smoking pile of fat and charred bone. And it meant friendly fire would be far, far worse. If the other mercenaries could even get within a ten-foot radius of the thing when it was in use.

But oh, the opportunities. Melting through enemy walls!

Fischer eyed the flamethrower hungrily, as if he was afraid Conagher would keep it and refuse to give it back. "I try to use it at night, when the smoke's not so obvious. Otherwise I'd let you see it in action. It's... it's wonderful."

"You might be able to use it, you know. If you came back with us." Lawrence's voice surprised him. He spoke without thinking, but by the time the words left him he realized it was a genius thing to say. "Conagher's got a new... recognition... thingy. Doc has a few new tricks up his sleeve. It's one last fight, maybe Helen'll let us go all out for this one."

"You think?" Fischer asked, his voice soft. "I'd love to see it in action. Not against... steel, or grass. But... you know."

Conagher nodded. He did know. In the years the mercenaries fought at Teufort, Fischer had been one of the most efficient – and most feared – fighters on the team. He'd been ruthless, fearless, charging into situations where he knew he'd wind up riddled with bullets, burns and punctures. But if it meant pushing back a wave of incoming BLU fighters, he'd do it, more often than not sending them scrambling for water or the safety of their fort's walls.

"Seems like we need ya," Conagher said. "It'd do us a hell of a lot of good, I can tell you that. 'Specially with this new piece of work."

Seconds stretched like hours in Conagher's mind as he stared at Fischer, whose expression had faded from wistful to troubled. The smell of burnt grass swirled through the back yard, mingling with the sickly-sour smell of propane. Over the fence's edge, the Texan could see the sun, hovering at the edge of the horizon. He shuddered. Sunset meant they had one full day left to round everything – and everyone – up and get to the train. Head back to the place where death was not guaranteed, but would happen at least seven or eight times a day.

"...go," Fischer said.

Conagher snapped out of his reverie. "What?"

"I said, I'll go. I suppose it's time for Miss Middy to retire, anyway. Or maybe I can answer some letters from the fort and mail them in to my editor." Fischer dipped his head, peering at Conagher through half-open eyes. "Guess you guys'll have to get used to seeing me in a mask again."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong>

I wrote a book of an author's note, waxing poetic about the writing process and ways to write genuine conversations and finding ways to connect with the characters.

Then I realized it was huge and deleted it. I don't like padding my stories with mega-long notes.

Anyway, Pyro! The moment you've all been waiting for. Or maybe not, but it's a moment I've been waiting for, ever since I first mentioned Miss Middy Magazine.

FYI – On Pyro being a guy. I honestly had no idea whether to make Pyro a man or a woman. When I wrote the chapter, I realized the character as I wrote them could be either gender, without any real differences other than a couple minor details. I've gone back and forth on it since I started the chapter – on the one hand, I feel like Pyro being written as a girl is cliché, but on the other hand, I'm a girl who cosplays Pyro, and I felt like writing my own lady!Pyro would be fun.

So finally I flipped a coin. Literally the night before this chapter was set to upload, I got out a quarter, flipped it, heads for a guy and tails for a girl, and it landed on heads.

So here you are. Martin Fischer, the pyromaniac. Probably my favorite fanfic character I've ever written.

Oh, and before anyone asks – I promise Pyro won't be overpowered in this fanfiction. If you take anything away from any of my stories, I hope it's the knowledge that very few of the things my characters set out to do go as planned. :)

_ETA: _Late upload ahoy! Accidentally saved the new text to my laptop instead of my USB stick, and had to wait until I got home from work. :) My bad.


	21. Chapter 21

Early-morning clouds rolled across the sky, hiding the sun from view. Pedestrians hurried down the sidewalks, umbrellas at the ready for the rain that looked like it could start at any minute. Cars waited in bumper-to-bumper traffic, horns blaring and lights flaring as everyone hurried to get where they were going before the storm began.

But Conagher didn't notice any of that. Instead, he kicked his feet up in his threadbare recliner and took a deep, content breath.

For the first time in days, the apartment was empty.

Fischer had been happy enough to let the other mercenaries stay at his home. As far as they knew, Conagher spent the night scrubbing carpets and scouring walls so the landlord wouldn't keep his damage department.

Surprisingly, they'd bought it, filing out the door with a few halfhearted offers to help and promising to cover the Texan's latrine duties once they made it back to Teufort. Conagher had smiled and nodded and slammed the door none-to-gently as soon as the last one crossed the threshold. Then, he had parked himself in the recliner, ordered a pizza, and spent the night watching his favorite John Wayne movies.

Now, though, there were other things to attend to.

He stood, stretching through the series of pops and cracks that made their way through his knees and spine. The sounds from the street below – the horns, the steady thrum of engines, the distant thunder – drifted through the apartment's thin walls as he made his way down the hallway and toward the bedroom. He nudged the door open and surveyed its sparse contents.

In Teufort, the Texan had learned to live out of a suitcase and whatever could fit in a two-by-five alcove. More than once, he'd wished he could go back to that kind of controlled environment. Especially when he stopped and really stared at the awful mess his bedroom tended to be.

With a sigh, Conagher stooped and scooped up an armload of clothes. If he hurried, he might be able to grab an open washer and manage a couple of loads before the crowds came in. Then it would be back to storage for all but a couple pairs of clothes. He absently wondered if his name was still in the storage unit's system.

Once Conagher finished the laundry, it took him less than an hour to gather everything into one corner of the living room. From there, he divided his toiletries into a small mesh bag and folded enough clean clothes to last him a few days. The new sentry, a disassembled pile of metal rods and wires, was stuffed into a duffel bag. He had a feeling Helen wouldn't approve of any new technology, but that wouldn't stop him from trying to bring it in.

Finally, he shoved his remaining clothes into two trash bags and slung one over each shoulder. He couldn't help but feel a sense of finality as he pulled the apartment door shut behind him, even though he knew he'd be back to get the rest of his stuff. A sense of deja vu washed over him.

At least this time he knew what to expect when he stepped off the train.

(-)

"Ahahaha! Ivan never melted car before!" Flames illuminated the Russian's enormous smile. He stood, hands on hips, and stared at the white-hot wreckage in front of him.

Grinning, Fischer took the flamethrower from Ivan. "Fun, innit? I have a bus in the back, if you want to give that one a try, too."

Ivan squealed, bouncing on his heels and clapping his hands. His laugh was almost drowned out by the sound of metal collapsing on itself. "Take me to bus, Pyro!"

The two disappeared around the charred remains of what might have been a railroad car, leaving the remaining mercenaries lounging on the concrete patio. A few moments later, Ivan's hearty laughter echoed through the wreckage, sending the few birds who dared to perch in Fischer's backyard scrambling for the safety of trees across the street.

Lawrence leaned against the metal railing that circled the patio, adjusting the sunglasses perched on top of his head. In the distance, a grayish haze enveloped Conagher's side of town, and the dark-bellied clouds overhead promised rain would hit them any minute.

"I should have come here weeks ago!" Doe dropped next to him, a mountain of bacon and eggs – courtesy of the cook – piled onto a plastic plate. His next words were muffled by a fist-sized bite of eggs. "This is _real_ food. _Man's_ food, not that namby-pamby microwave crap Conagher lives off of. That sorry excuse for a cowboy might as well be some teenage girl, living off... what do girls eat? Salads? Kittens?"

All Lawrence could manage in reply was a grunt. Truth be told, after spending nearly a week at Conagher's side, he felt like half his brain was missing. The half that took the Australian's half-baked ideas and turned them into something brilliant. Or at the very least, workable.

And there was plenty that needed turning. They were twenty-four hours from their deadline, and they were still missing their Spy. Lawrence had spent half the night brainstorming ways to approach the Frenchman, ranging from reasoning to outright begging to hitting him on the head with a brick and dragging him to the van.

Absently, he wondered if Fischer had access to chloroform. That could work.

"Hey, Doc." When Niklas looked up from his perch on the doorstep, Lawrence waved him over. With a grunt, the doctor stood, stowing the copy of Miss Middy Magazine he'd been reading under one arm.

"_Ja,_ Herr Mundy?"

A muffled explosion came from behind the rail car. A moment later, Ivan's laughter was joined by a manic chuckle that could only belong to Fischer.

"Y'think you remember the way to Antoine's place? If I drove you?"

For a moment, Niklas's mind shot back to earlier in the week, when he'd spent an hour wandering the streets in a floral-print dress. After the Frenchman had rescued him, he'd spent the entire car ride staring out the window, his face set in an embarrassed scowl.

"_Ja_. I remember ze vay."

Lawrence straightened, stretching his arms over his head. Spending four nights curled into a tight ball on thin carpet was better than nearly freezing to death at night in his van, sure, but it wasn't doing any favors on his back. "Good."

"Are ve going to get him?"

"Mmhmm." Lawrence risked a glance at Billy, who was crouched against the house, chin on his knees and eyes locked on a point somewhere high above the fence. The Bostonian had barely said a word the entire night, and what little conversation he did manage had been forced. "Runner. Want to come?"

No answer.

Lawrence tried again, this time raising his voice over the distant thunder. "C'mon, Walsch. You gotta talk to us sometime, mate."

"No, I don't." Billy's voice was muffled against his jeans. "I don't have to do anything with you. Far as I'm concerned, you can all go screw yourselves."

Lawrence sighed. "Fine. Fischer!"

A moment later the redhead appeared from behind the rail car. "Yeah?"

"Doc and I are gonna run and see if we can, er, change Antoine's mind. You alright with some of the guys staying here a bit longer?"

"Not at all." Yawning, Fischer climbed onto the patio, his sneakers squeaking on the concrete floor. His skin was flushed from being so close to the fire, making the scar stand out like a stark silhouette. "But d'you mind if I come with you?"

"Why?"

A smirk flitted across Fischer's face, almost too fast for Lawrence to notice. "We have unfinished business, the Frenchman and I. I suppose now is as good a time as any to... remind him, of it."

Lawrence's stomach tightened. At Teufort, the Pyro and the Spy had a complicated relationship, and he wasn't sure how that transferred into the civilian world. He could certainly think of some worst-case scenarios. But Fischer had been nice enough to let them stay overnight, and the way Lawrence's luck had been running in the last day or two, he was liable to lose the man's cooperation if he told him no.

"Stephen will keep an eye on the others. Make them comfortable," Fischer supplied helpfully.

Finally, the intense desire to keep Fischer on his good side won. "Sure, fine, come on then."

The chuckle that came from Fischer was enough to send a chill down the Australian's spine.

"Perfect."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: Not much plot this week, folks. Changing jobs and all that jazz. And just so you know, this has not been beta read. My usual betas are just as busy as I am, so if you find any mistakes or outright weirdness please let me know.

Fischer!Pyro is an interesting character to write, and I'm still kind of getting used to him. In-game, Pyro strikes me as mildly sinister, since some of the best strategies for playing the class involve ambushing, and he's quick enough on his feet to come out of nowhere. (Granted, some of the _funnest_ strategies involve blowing people up with their own rockets/grenades or killing Snipers with their own arrows, but whatever.) And I imagine anyone would go a bit crazy if no one could understand a word they said, ever.

To the people who have recently reviewed, favorited and added this story to your alerts, thank you thank you thank you! I just haven't had time to go through and thank all of you individually, but I promise that's on my to-do list. I can't stress enough how much your feedback helps and encourages me with this story.

To those of you in the northern hemisphere, happy spring! I don't know about you guys, but I always get crazy-productive this time of year.

See you next week!


	22. Chapter 22

"Gotta say, he puts mine to shame." Fischer whistled appreciatively and ran a scarred hand over his chin.

Lawrence didn't reply, but he was just as impressed. The Frenchman's house was all spires and enormous blacked-out windows, a Gothic masterpiece tucked at the back of a winding driveway lined with evergreens. A pointed iron fence ran the length of it, disappearing around curves on each side of the property. Combined with the building storm, it looked like something straight out of a nightmare.

Niklas jabbed a finger toward the intercom's call button. "Shall ve call him?"

But Fischer was already halfway up the fence, his work boots gripping the tiny notches in the iron. "Somethin' tells me he wouldn't be too keen on lettin' us in."  
>The other mercenaries watched, open-mouthed, as Fischer scurried up the fence like a squirrel. He'd changed into a pair of heavy denim pants and a dark, long-sleeved work shirt that sharply contrasted with his firey hair. Once he reached the top, he swung a leg over the spires – careful to keep them well away from his crotch – and slowly slid down to the other side.<p>

"Watch and learn, men." From a pocket in his pants he produced something resembling a lighter, except a thin metal pick popped out from the top instead of a flame.

He approached the call box, chewing a lip as he leaned close to examine the seam that held it together. Then, which a chuckle, he pressed a tiny tab that jutted out from one side and the box popped open, revealing a nest of wires and glittering metal bits. He isolated one wire and, with a smirk, used the pick to pop its copper tip off the screw connecting it to the rest of the setup. Something clicked.

Conagher glanced at the front of the box and raised an eyebrow. The entire front of it had gone dark.

"Think y'killed it."

The redhead snorted. "I know what I'm doing."

"Sure don't look like it."

"Just because you never saw me do this at Tuefort doesn't mean I can't," Fischer snapped, shooting the Texan a dirty look. "Never needed to there."

Another click as Fischer moved the dark wire to a screw positioned further inside the box. The door swung open, its iron bolts creaking softly as it moved.

It was Fischer's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Told you."

"My mistake, son." The Texan chuckled as he, Niklas and Lawrence headed inside. Fischer joined them on the asphalt path, and they began the long walk toward Antoine's house.

The doctor brought up the rear, hands deep in his coat pockets. "I don't know how much good breaking in vill do, Herr Fischer. Ze Spy, er, Antoine vill have surveillance."

"I didn't say I didn't want him knowing we're here." Fischer glanced back. "I just didn't think he'd let us in."

Less than a minute after the former mercenaries made it through the fence, a dark car careened down the path in front of them. It stopped several feet away, turning sideways so the half-dozen or so black-suited men who jumped out could use it as a shield.

"On the ground!" A man leaning over the hood aimed a rifle at Fischer's midsection. His colleagues trained their weapons on Conagher, Lawrence and Niklas.

The redhead looked unimpressed. "We're here to see an old friend."

If the man aiming at him replied, his voice was lost when a second car slowed to a stop behind the first. The door swung open and out stepped Antoine, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"I told you I am not interested," he said, glaring at each man in turn.

"So, monsieur, you _do_ know these men?"

"Of course I know them," Antoine snapped. Then, to the mercenaries, "Drop your weapons."

Fischer spread his arms. "This is a social visit, friend. We didn't bring the artillery."

Antoine's lips grew thinner. As far as Conagher could tell, the Frenchman appeared to be having an internal argument with himself, as if he wanted to give the order to shoot the men and be done with them, but his curiosity was getting in the way. He chanced a glance in Lawrence's direction to find the Australian staring at Antoine like he, too, was trying to figure out the man's game.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and Conagher fought the urge to squirm. During their days at Teufort, the Spy's loyalties had been the most thin, and more than once the men had wondered if he was, in fact, working for Redmond or if he was acting as a mole for their employer's twin brother. Some of the things that had happened – secrets leaked, plans discovered, intelligence flat-out vanishing – had pointed to a spy in the men's midst, and it made sense to suspect that the spy was... well, the Spy.

It was hard for the Texan to dwell on that, though. Just then he was more focused on the gun barrel pointed squarely at his forehead.

Finally, Antoine made a disgusted noise and turned back to his car. "Bring them to the sitting room. The storm is about to hit, and I don't want to be standing out here in the rain."

(-)

"I'm surprised at you, _monsieur_." Fischer spoke the word like it was an insult. "No cronies to make sure we don't rough you up?"

The men were scattered through Antoine's spacious sitting room, with Antoine seated in an enormous leather chair at its center. Rain pattered against the room's high windows, dampening the smell of sandalwood.

He eyed the redhead cooly. "I think I can take care of myself, my friend." Before Fischer could reply, Antoine swiveled the chair to face the others. "I thought I made myself clear when we last spoke. I have no desire to return to Teufort."

"That's the thing." Conagher cringed inwardly at the desperation that tinged his voice. "You're the last one we need. We have everyone else. But Helen won't-"

"I will not spend any more time blindly following that despicable woman." Antoine tapped a finger against the chair. "As I said before, no amount of money would be sufficient to convince me. I am beyond comfortable."

"Are you afraid?"

Antoine's head snapped to Fischer, who wore a smug grin. "Are you afraid?" he repeated, slowly saying each word so Antoine was sure to understand.

"Fear has nothing to do with it." But the Frenchman reddened. "I would not expect someone like you to understand."

"Oh, I understand all right." By then, Fischer was half-standing, eyes alight. "You're afraid you've lost your touch. You never did have the balls to show your face like the rest of us, hiding in corners and shadows and waiting for someone on the BLU team to turn his back. And now that you're _older_-" he said the word with relish "-you're afraid you wouldn't last a minute back at the fort."

Conagher, Niklas and Lawrence watched, wide-eyed, as Antoine swelled, and for a moment they were afraid he'd call for security. But slowly his purpling face faded back to its usual pallor, and he took a deep breath.

"Mind games will not work, _monsieur_," Antoine said slowly. "I am used to far better ones than what the likes of you could put out."

"Damn." Fischer dropped back into the chair. "Thought I had you for a minute there."

No one spoke after that, allowing a tense silence to permeate the room like a mist. Conagher shifted, catching Lawrence's eye and wishing there was some way they could communicate without it being obvious to the others in the room. Without realizing it, his mind began to wander. Surely it was possible to transmit sound waves from one brain to another. Like a radio.

_Not a bad idea_, he mused. Once they made it back to the fort, he'd get to work on some blueprints, maybe a prototype.

When Conagher came back to reality, he saw Fischer had stood again and was wandering through the room, admiring a set of cameos clustered just behind where Antoine sat.

"These are nice." He leaned in. "Look genuine."

Antoine's voice was curt. "They are."

"You don't say. I'll have to see if I can order me a set- huuuuWAH!" Fischer flung himself at Antoine, hooking the Frenchman around the neck and pulling him to the polished-wood floor. The chair shot sideways, smashing against a desk before spinning itself over.

"Securi-ack!"

Fischer tightened his grip on Antoine's neck, cutting off the man's shout. The pair became a jumble of flailing limbs that juggernauted through the room as the other mercenaries watched speechlessly. Another chair fell, followed by an expensive-looking glass coffee table that shattered the moment it hit the ground. Wrapping a leg around Antoine's midsection, Fischer pulled himself into a sitting position so he could pin his opponent to the ground with an elbow.

"One of you watch the door!" Then, so softly it could only be meant for the man thrashing below him to hear, "We're not taking no for an answer, friend. Much as I hate to admit it, we need you, and you're coming with us whether you like it or not."

Antoine responded with a gurgled string of curses and a fist that connected with the side of Fischer's face. He flinched, but refused to let Antoine out of the choke hold, looking up at his comrades with a mixture of flushed excitement and aggravation.

"Some help would be _wonderful_, guys."

"Er," Lawrence hesitantly made his way to Fischer and the now-prone Antoine. "Whaddyou want us to do?"

But before Fischer could reply, a resounding smack sounded through the room, followed by a thud as Antoine went limp. Behind them, Conagher lowered a glass paperweight that had, until then, occupied a space in the middle of the desk.

"Did you kill him?" The redhead tilted Antoine's head back, only to cause the Frenchman to let out an earsplitting snore. "No, guess you didn't."

Grunting, he stood, pulling as much of Antoine up with him as he could. Lawrence took the other side.

"Gentlemen," Fischer said, imitating Antoine's accent with a sneer. "Problem solved."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: <strong>No update next week. I need a breather, and some time to sit down and plot out the rest of the story from here. The action will definitely pick up – after all, we're going from a lot of slower scenes to almost-constant drama and fighting – but I have a few more plot twists in mind before the story ends, and I want to make sure the stage is set for those twists to happen. We'll continue with our regularly-scheduled programming as of April 13.

Some notes on the story:

Originally Fischer was going to choke Antoine until he passed out. For some reason, the scene was extremely uncomfortable for me to write, so I nixed it and went with the more cliché "knock 'em in the head" routine.

Also, I didn't plan for Antoine and Fischer to loathe each other. It just kind of happened.

Non-story things:

Several of you lovely readers have messaged me asking what load out I use in-game. So I figured I'd also post it here, in case anyone else was wondering.

For Pyro (my main class) I use the vanilla flamethrower, the detonator and the homewrecker. I'm not some kind of flamethrower purist – it's just that I airblast way too much to use the backburner or the phlogistinator. The detonator's an awesome way to light a big crowd of people on fire from a distance with minimal shots (and the jump boost is nice), and my homewrecker's saved my team's sentries so many times I feel like I should write a ballad about it. If I'm going to have to actually kill people with my melee (ie melee-only rounds), I'll switch to either the sharpened volcano fragment or the powerjack.

For Heavy (my secondary class) I alternate vanilla minigun and Tomislav (which I think is overpowered, but if the opposing team is crazy-good I'll break it out and start mowing people down), the family business (still kind of 'eh' about it) and the gloves of running urgently.

The rest of the classes (which I rarely use because I'm terrible at them) I swap around.


	23. Chapter 23

As it turned out, lugging an unconscious man through five hundred yards of heavily-secured property was slightly more difficult than the former mercenaries had imagined. Fifteen minutes after knocking Antoine in the head, the men finally reached the gate they'd used to enter. They hurried toward it, fighting to get back to Lawrence's van before the clouds rumbling overhead broke into a full-fledged storm.

"Remind me never to get into the kidnapping business," Conagher muttered, shifting Antoine so the Frenchman's hand was no longer brushing against his stomach. A fireman's carry certainly made toting Antoine easier, but it also made it infinitely more awkward. "Fischer. Hurry up and get it open."

"Working on it." The redhead had already opened the gate's panel and begun to fiddle with the wires inside. "I can kill the cameras, too, so they can't see where we're going."

Lawrence fumbled in his pocket for his keys. The van sat across the street, half-hidden behind an enormous evergreen shrub. Far as he knew, the men would toss Antoine into the back and make a fast getaway for Fischer's home. At least, he hoped that was the plan – they'd never officially discussed what to do with Antoine _after_ they kidnapped him.

The Frenchman's eyes fluttered, and Conagher cursed. "Fischer!"

"Here!" The gate squealed as it swung open. The men scurried outside, and Conagher gave Antoine a none-too-gentle jostle that sent the Frenchman's head bouncing off the curb. To Conagher's relief, that was enough for Antoine to lapse back into total unconsciousness.

Thunder sounded over the mercenaries' heads as they sprinted across the street. Lawrence bolted ahead of the others, jamming the key in the lock and flinging the side door open so Conagher could toss their former coworker inside. From there, he climbed into the driver's seat and, with some difficulty, started the van.

Antoine lay smeared against the side window, one arm flung behind him at an awkward angle and the other squished between his hip and the seat.

In the distance, an alarm sounded. When Conagher turned to look, he saw several black-clad men running up the driveway toward Antoine's house. He breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back in his seat.

For once, something they'd planned had gone without a hitch.

(–)

Unfortunately, the men had not decided in advance how to handle a furious Frenchman with a migraine.

Fischer, Conagher and Lawrence pressed their backs against the bathroom door. A string of French curses, mixed with the occasional death threat, poured from the other side of the door faster than the downpour going on outside. Fischer flinched as something that sounded suspiciously like a priceless vase crashed against the door, rattling the butterfly kitten portraits on the walls.

"I think we've hit a slight bump in the road, mates," Lawrence said. "Pretty sure anyone who goes in there won't be comin' out in one piece."

Another crash, followed by the sound of splintering wood. Snarling, Fischer flung the door open and stormed inside. The door slammed, leaving Conagher and Lawrence to listen from the other side as Fischer's voice matched Antoine's shout for shout.

"I know this isn't ideal!" Fischer screamed in response to a barely-intelligible string of insults. "But it's not that bad!"

"Not that bad? I'll-" Antoine lapsed into another bout of French. On the other side of the door, Lawrence raised his eyebrows.

Conagher frowned. "What's he saying?"

"My French isn't great, but I think he's saying something about stranglin' us with our own intestines while we sleep."

The door rattled. A moment later, Fischer appeared, a vase under each arm and a stack of decorative balanced in his hands. He swung the door shut behind him, nearly crushing the Frenchman's fingers as he tried to scramble free.

"No you don't," Fischer said. He turned to face Lawrence and Conagher. "One of you grab these vases for me? Didn't want him destroying these. Tex, grab that chair and shove it under the doorknob, will you?"

Once Antoine was sufficiently locked inside, the men distributed the breakables among themselves. Ignoring the furious screams echoing from the bathroom, men settled into a single-file line and headed back down the hallway.

"Just got to keep him in there overnight, then we'll figure out a way to get him to the train tomorrow." The plates rattled in Fischer's hands.

"Easier said than done, I reckon," Conagher said.

Fischer shrugged. "Nah. The window in there is the size of a shoebox. No way he's getting out of it."

Thunder rumbled outside, drowning out the man locked in the bathroom. In the storm-darkened room, the men looked like huddled shadows. The rest of the mercenaries were sprawled in Fischer's floral-printed living room. In the corner, Ivan, Doe and DeGroot played poker with a set of tattered cards while Billy glared at the rivulets of rain streaming down the window. Niklas was seated in a high-backed armchair, his nose buried in a book. This far from the bathroom, Antoine's screams sounded like a far-off radio, or noise from the street.

"It vas a bad idea bringing him here, you know." Niklas didn't bother looking up from his book. "Ve vill be dead by sunrise."

Fischer ignored him, instead dropping into a recliner with a sigh. If he looked toward the back door, he could see new flamethrower sitting on the tile, wrapped in a towel to keep it from dripping all over the floor. He hoped the cursed thing would work – the last time it was rained on, it had taken him nearly a week to clean the tubing and re-attach the wires. He'd made modifications since then, sure, there was still no telling.

Conagher settled on the floor, close enough to observe the card game.

Ivan pounded his hands on the carpet. "Yahtzee!"

"No, man." DeGroot ran a hand over his face. "This is poker. _Poker_. What kind of cards do you have?"

Doe slammed his cards, face-up, onto the floor. "This is the best hand ever!"

"No, it… no it isn't."

"But they're all red!"

"That doesn't mean anything. And that's not even a real playing card, that's a face drawn on a napkin." With a disgusted sigh, DeGroot grabbed Ivan's hand and turned it over, revealing two queens. "Look, Ivan, that's a pretty good hand. It beats mine and Doe's."

"So Ivan win?"

"This hand, aye."

"Huzzah! This best day since Ivan discover toast!"

DeGroot sighed again. "You two play by yourselves a bit, aye?"

Once the two men were involved in another round, the Scotsman leaned back. "Our French friend didn't seem too pleased wit bein' here."

"No, he isn't." Conagher watched as Doe attempted to use another napkin card as a fifth ace. "But Fischer seems to think he can't get out. So I think we're goo-"

His words were cut short by a resounding crash, followed by a thud. Tinkling glass came next, then a hollow silence.

"If he tore up that mirror, I'll _kill him._" Fischer was up in an instant, striding down the hallway. He flung the bathroom door open.

"How bad is it?" Lawrence asked from the living room.

At first, Fischer didn't reply. But when he did, his words were laced with so many curses that even Doe looked up in surprise. He came sprinting down the hall, his face almost as red as his hair.

"He got out the window," Fischer said. "I saw him running across the grounds. He escaped."

(-)

Antoine struggled in the chair, his screams muffled by the rag tied around his mouth. With a grunt, Fischer wrapped one more zip-tie around the Frenchman's arms and the chair's leg. The chair rattled furiously as Antoine writhed, knocking against the floor like a snare drum.

Fischer stood and crossed his arms. "See what you made us do? We were trying so hard to be nice to you."

"How'd he get out that window, anyway?" Conagher leaned against the doorway, still fighting to catch his breath. Apparently Antoine had made it a point to stay in shape. "I thought you said it was too small."

"No idea." Fischer aimed a kick at the chair leg. For a moment Antoine stopped squirming, but he aimed a murderous glare in Fischer's direction. "For all I know the bugger doesn't have a collarbone."

The other mercenaries milled around the room, their expressions ranging from curiosity to mild amusement. Repeated thuds echoed from the bathroom as one of Fischer's hired hands secured a board to the window frame.

"So what do we do with him?" Conagher looked at Fischer, his face blank. "We can't leave him like that all night."

"Oh, I think we can." Fischer smirked down at the Frenchman, who responded with another series of jerks and muffled curses. "Unless he behaves himself."

Immediately, Antoine froze. Slowly, he jerked his head up and down in an irritated nod.

"Is that so? You sure?" Fischer leaned close.

Another nod.

Conagher responded by untying the knot at the back of Antoine's head.

"_I'll kill you! I'll kill all of you! You have no idea who you're dealing wi-"_

The rag went back on. Fischer sighed. "Have it your way."

Conagher tugged the rag further down Antoine's chin, carefully avoiding the Frenchman's teeth. "What do we do with him?"

The mercenaries thought for a moment. Finally, a slow smile spread across Fischer's face.

"Maybe Doe would like to teach him how to play poker."

"Yes!" Bounding forward, Doe grabbed the back of the chair and dragged it toward the corner. "I'll teach you all the ins and outs of this gentleman's game! You start with fourteen cards, and then everyone draws a card and if you yell 'go fish!' you get to grab another and then you…"

A muffled wail filtered through the rag. Stifling a chuckle, Conagher turned and faced the other mercenaries. "I reckon we should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> This is a shaky chapter, I admit. At first I was going to open at the train station. But I felt like I needed a bridge between kidnapping Antoine and them actually boarding the train. So I indulged in some silliness, which I think I'm entitled to from time to time. :p

Now, for the less-fun stuff. Gonna level with you all here. On the one hand, I love having weekly updates for you all, and I love how it MAKES me stick to a deadline rather than a vague, fuzzy "oh, I'll get around to it eventually" mentality. I am not a terribly self-motivated person. I NEED deadlines, otherwise stuff doesn't get done.

On the other hand, to say I've been ridiculously busy lately would be a gross understatement. Not just with work, but with other projects (the novel, some short story work, etc).

For now, we're going to keep up the weekly updates. But, if my work/novel schedule starts to overwhelm me we might have to change to every other week, at least temporarily. I still love you guys (more than once you all have kept me from banging my head against a wall), I'm just crazy busy right now. ^_^;

One other thing. While I was out, I wrote a 7,000 word short story in first-person present tense. Since TLH is third-person omniscient past tense (NEVER AGAIN, I tell you), I might have slipped back into other-story-mode and tossed a few present tenses in. If you see any of those, let me know.


	24. Chapter 24

Conagher stepped off the train and took a deep breath. Despite the knot in his stomach, he grinned at the searing New Mexican desert that spread out in front of him. Already, his fingers twitched at the memory of making some great discovery, all while fighting the heat and the flies and the parched feeling in his throat.

It was just like he remembered.

Thank God.

The platform was rickety and creaked with every step as the nine mercenaries – including Antoine, who appeared to have resigned himself to his fate – approached a run-down wooden building that sat at the far end of the track. Beside them, the train belched smoke and lurched forward, chugging away from the platform and down a lonely section of track that disappeared in the distance.

No turning back now, Conagher thought. Not that he would have in the first place.

"Well, Mister Mundy, it appears you held up your end of the bargain." The voice came from a patch of shade cast by the building. As the men neared, they saw Miss Pauling, a clipboard clutched to her chest and a tentative smile on her lips. Aside from a few more lines at the corners of her eyes, she hadn't changed in the two years since the others had last seen seen her.

"Told y'I would, didn't I?" Lawrence's sunglasses glinted in the flaring sunlight.

Pauling nodded. "Follow me, please."

Concrete-hard earth cracked beneath their feet as the men followed Pauling inside the building. Inside, frigid air blew through the room, pumped from vents in the building's high ceiling. A single, flickering drop light hanging from a metal hook illuminated it, and the men blinked for several moments as their eyes adjusted.

If the sudden change in light and temperature bothered Pauling, she didn't show it. Instead, she made her way to a low desk in the middle of the room and settled in a wheeled leather chair behind it.

"First, there's the matter of contracts, of course. They are almost identical to your previous ones, with a few changes when it comes to the amount of time you'll be working for us. I expect them back, signed, by the end of the day.

"Next," she continued, resting her elbows on the desk and leaning forward. "Helen has taken the liberty of transporting your old things back to your barracks. Doctor, you'll find all the equipment necessary to implement the uber technology is in the medic bay."

Niklas twitched, his hands itching for the feel of a scalpel.

"And Engineer," here she turned to Conagher, "your sentries are disassembled and stowed in boxes near your locker. As for the rest of you, you'll find your uniforms are washed and ready for wear. Laundry day's the first of the week, like it was before."

She stood and briskly distributed a stack of manila envelopes, each one addressed to a different class. Conagher turned the contract over in his hands, his thoughts on the pieces of his new sentry that were rolled inside the spare clothes in his duffle bag. Something told him Helen wouldn't appreciate any extra equipment. He hoped Pauling wouldn't think to search their luggage. When he glanced at Fischer, the redhead appeared to be thinking the same thing, judging by the constant, too-cool glances he made at the suitcase at his feet.

"One more thing." Pauling smiled. "We fully expect your behavior to match what was previously exhibited on the battlefield. You are no longer on a first-name basis. Friendships are, as you know, prohibited. Helen insists your camaraderie extend only as far as keeping each other alive when necessary."

Those words bit at Conagher. Before, the mercenaries had considered themselves little more than coworkers or acquaintances at best. But in the last week, he had to admit he'd softened toward most of them, even when it came to them raiding his refrigerator in the middle of the night and attempting to 'borrow' his toothbrush.

Except for Fischer. Conagher would never admit it out loud, but he much preferred their Pyro with his mouth hidden behind a gas mask and his attitude in check. He wouldn't blame Antoine for putting a blade beneath the redhead's shoulders.

Of course, the Texan wouldn't blame Antoine for doing the same to him. After all, Conagher had played along with Fischer's plans, regardless of how little he cared for them. Conagher wasn't quite sure if he could forgive himself for that.

"Let's go, then."

The Texan jerked. He hadn't realized Pauling was still speaking. The others had shouldered their bags and were watching the woman yank a rug up from in front of the desk. Beneath it, a metal ring glinted, set into a wooden rectangle along the floor. Pauling took hold of the ring and pulled, and the plank groaned upward, its weight supported by a pair of springs on each side. A set of stairs disappeared into the darkness below.

Clever, that. Conagher hadn't remembered a trapdoor leading into Teufort. The last time, they'd blindfolded him and taken him by car.

Pauling reached up and pulled the light off the hook. "The skirmish will begin at sunup three days from now. I trust you all remember to listen to the alarm. Good luck."

Conagher picked up his bag and followed Niklas, who led the way down the steps. Once in the pitch-black tunnel, he felt his way along a cool, dusty wall and made room for the others. Pauling came last, the drop-light casting a pale yellow light through the tunnel that made everyone in it look like walking corpses. To the men's surprise, she handed the light to Lawrence, then ascended the stairs again.

"I'll expect the contracts by sundown."

At that, the trapdoor slammed shut. A moment later, the men could hear the sound of something very heavy – the desk, Conagher assumed – being scooted over the top of it. The Texan cleared his throat and forced himself to sound cheerful.

"Onward then, I suppose."

Antoine scoffed and roughly shoved his way through the knot of people, pushing Fischer so hard the redhead tripped sideways and smashed face-first into the wall. Conagher shot out a hand and caught Fischer by the collar, stopping the man from lunging at Antoine's back.

"Let it go," Conagher said. _You had that coming_, he wanted to add, but he shut his mouth and trudged down the tunnel behind Antoine. Judging by the footsteps he heard behind him, the others followed suit.

As far as Conagher could tell, the tunnel stretched a half-mile or so, twisting so many times the Texan lost all sense of direction. The only light came from Lawrence, who had scooted around the others until he was at the front of the line. He held the drop light aloft, giving the men a few feet of visibility both forward and back. Ahead, they could hear Antoine's soft breathing, but the Frenchman was lost in the darkness.

And though he tried not to show it, that made Conagher very nervous.

The footsteps ahead of them stopped. As Lawrence neared, the drop light illuminated the Frenchman and a wooden ladder set directly into the wall. A second trapdoor was situated in the ceiling. The Frenchman stepped aside, watching silently as Conagher climbed the ladder and shouldered it open.

"Full speed ahead, folks." Conagher pulled himself up.

And nearly fell back into the tunnel as a wave of recognition – of whistling sentry rockets and gunfire and blood and pain and surging adrenaline – washed over him.

He was sitting directly in the middle of Teufort's courtyard. It was dusty and reeked of rotten hay, but it was the courtyard.

Lawrence let out a long, slow breath as he joined Conagher. "Never thought I'd see this place again."

"Me either."

"_Is Bossie!_" Ivan swung his legs out off the ladder and sprinted at a plywood cow leaning against the chain-link fence. Its painted surface was faded from years in the New Mexican sun, and one of its legs had rotted off, but Ivan scooped it up in his enormous arms like a cherished childhood pet.

Niklas snorted. "Imbecile." Then, to the rest of the men, "I believe I vill retire to ze medic bay. Ze uber technology will need… tuning, I vould assume. I vill call you ven it is ready."

At that, he turned on a heel and strolled up the steps, disappearing inside the barracks and whistling something Conagher recognized as Bridge on the River Kwai.

"He seems mighty happy."

"'course he is, mate." Lawrence adjusted his hat. "He's about to start cuttin' us open. Figure he's downright giddy."

A cracking sound echoed through the courtyard, followed by a shriek. When Conagher and Lawrence turned, they saw Ivan, mouth agape and clutching two pieces of a hugged-in-half cow.

"Bossie?"

"Oh, Lord." Conagher hurried toward the enormous man and hooked an arm around his shoulders. "C'mon, man. Let's go see if Sasha's been delivered to your locker yet."

"Sasha?"

Suddenly, all traces of the bumbling, none-too-bright Russian that Lawrence had grown so accustomed to vanished. Ivan's face grew hard, and when he spoke his voice was low.

"Yes. Ivan would like to see Sasha."

(-)

The barracks was just like the men remembered – filthy, crowded and reeking of sweat and feet. Lockers lined both sides of the room, each one containing several pairs of folded clothing and numerous pieces of weaponry. Conagher took care not to touch the grime-covered walls, fighting the urge to cover his nose with his shirt as they approached a door on the far end of the room that would lead to their bunks. With any luck, he could stow the new sentry below his bunk and no one would be any wiser, until it actually came time for the fight. And by then, it would be too late.

"Hey, I remember this." Fischer reached into his locker and pulled out a flowery purse. "Hah."

"What was that for, anyway?" Lawrence's voice was muffled as he hoisted a half-dozen pairs of dark pants out of the locker. "Lot of us wondered what you were doin' with a lady-bag in yer things."

"Kept my dirty magazines in it." Fischer smirked. "Figured it was the one place you all were afraid to look."

The voices faded as Conagher rounded the corner that led to their bunks. He wasn't the first to make it there – already, Ivan had fluffed the straw mat he insisted was Sasha's bed, and now the man and gun were sitting across from each other, deep in a one-sided conversation.

A dusty fog rose from the canvas bunk as Conagher dropped onto it. He leaned over, scooting the bag that held the pieces of his new sentry under it, then leaned back and took a deep breath.

The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if their ragtag group of out-of-work mercenaries could actually pull off a win.

(-)

The minutes turned into hours, and by sundown a pile of signed contracts sat on the grubby desk shoved into a corner of their barracks. Conagher never actually saw anyone take them – he dropped his packet on the pile, turned around to answer a question from Lawrence, and by the time he looked back at the desk the pile was gone.

But wondering about that was too much effort, and the Texan was tired after an afternoon of trying to reassemble the sentry in secret. He found the others on the balcony that overlooked the filthy moat and bridge that separated the Red fort from its opponents.

"What y'think they're up to in there?" DeGroot had already changed into the short-sleeved coveralls and tactical vest he'd worn before. A surge of déjà vu washed over Conagher – he hadn't realized how accustomed he'd become to seeing the Scotsman in pressed pants and collared shirts. Now, it was easy to remember that the man sitting a few feet from him was perfectly capable of blowing up an entire city block.

Conagher settled next to him, dangling his legs over the edge. Across the moat, the Blue fort was silent and dark, and if Conagher hadn't known better he would have assumed it was abandoned. "No idea. I reckon we'll find out pretty soon, though." A glance at Lawrence. "How long'd Pauling say before we fight?"

"Three days."

Relief nudged at Conagher's chest. That was cutting it close, but three days should give him enough time to finish the work on the new sentry. But before he could think too much on that, the Texan realized their group was one member short. "Where's Antoine?"

"Pfft. Probably skulking about, or whatever it is he does in his downtime." Fischer tugged the hem of his shirt loose and began to rub two years' worth of grime off the gas mask's lenses. "He'll turn up."

(-)

The bright white room contrasted starkly with the desert outside its windows. Against one wall, a hospital bed supported the weight of a stick-thin man that seemed to be more wires and tubes than flesh. But his eyes were bright, and they narrowed shrewdly at the thin man seated in a molded plastic chair in front of him.

"I must say, you coming to see me is rather… unexpected." The old man's wheeze was almost lost amid a cacophony of beeps and whirring machinery. "What prompted the change of heart?"

"The circumstances are, shall we say, different than they were the last time."

"Indeed." A coughing fit suddenly wracked the old man's body. After several minutes, the coughs turned into a shudder that finally faded away. "And how do you plan on making this profitable for me?"

A shrug. "Intelligence. Strategies, conversations, personal information, I have access to it all. I can even sabotage them, if you want. It's no matter to me, Monsieur Mann."

"Call me Blutarch." A paper-white hand shot out from beneath the blanket. "I look forward to working with you, monsieur."

Antoine smirked and took Blutarch's withered hand in his. "As do I."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: Dun dun DUUUUUUN. XD I had toyed with the idea of not revealing Antoine as the person plotting with Blutarch, but I figured it was way too obvious and kind of insulting to present as a 'mystery.'

Couple of homages in this story to some of the other stuff I've written. Kudos if you caught them.

To the people who might think it's strange for Niklas to be whistling the River Kwai March – yes, I'm aware of the song's lyrics, and I thought it would be hilarious for the Medic, a (supposed) ex-Nazi, to absently whistle it. (If you're curious about the lyrics… they're slightly vulgar, I guess? I don't know if it merits a warning.)

See you next week!


	25. Chapter 25

**_UPDATE 5/3_**- No new chapter tomorrow, 5/4. Life is in the process of kicking my butt. Next update is still set for 5/11.

* * *

><p>The siren pierced the air, its high-pitched wail enough to rouse the nine mercenaries from their bunks. More than one – Conagher included – sat up so fast they wound up face-first on the floor.<p>

"What the hell?" Conagher pulled an inch-long splinter from his chin. Even as he yanked it free, he was climbing to his feet and fishing his work boots out from under the tiny bed. "It's only been a day!"

He didn't hear the others' responses. The siren drowned out every other noise, shrieking panic and doom and the promise of chaos.

Conagher scrambled for the pieces of his new sentry. He'd foolishly left them in a half-assembled heap at the foot of his bed, and now his heart pounded with the knowledge that there was just no time to finish it.

"Zis makes no sense!" Niklas's voice was almost a wail, and his slender hands shook as he quickly snapped the medi-gun's pieces together. "Ze uber... ve have not installed ze uber technology! Or ze respawn!"

Fischer's string of curses was cut off by the sudden presence of a gas mask. The sound of weapons clanging against wooden lockers joined the siren's insistent shriek.

But instinct and adrenaline took over, and within minutes the men stood just outside the barracks' sliding metal door, weapons at the ready.

The moment the door slid shut behind them, the sirens stopped. A venomous chuckle filled the air.

"This was a test," Helen purred into the speaker system. "Well done. See you men on Tuesday."

A click, and then silence, broken only by the cry of a buzzard overhead and Fischer's labored breathing.

"A... a test." Lawrence looked as though he wanted to snap his rifle in two. "So that-"

Antoine spat and pulled the balaclava off his face, irritably taking a draw from a cigarette. The faintly-striped business suit he wore was immaculate, Conagher noted with a hint of irritation, and looked as though it had been a day, not years, since the Frenchman had last donned it. In contrast, Conagher's overalls were a little snug in the belly, and he'd had trouble bending all the way down to pull on his boots. Hopefully a few weeks of hard labor would fix it. Looking around, the others were much the same – Ivan's bandolier was on backward, and Billy half-hopped as he fought to get his shoes on the right feet.

They didn't look like killers, Conagher realized. They looked like men playing dress up. Not murderers. Not mercenaries. Not hired guns in a never ending war between a pair of spoiled brats. The other team would wipe the floor with them.

Maybe he'd been wrong in wanting to come back.

"I vill begin ze installations zis afternoon." Niklas's voice cut through Conagher's thoughts. "I expect you men at ze medic bay after lunch."

At that, he turned and stalked toward the nearly-invisible little door that served as his operating room. A moment later the men heard a stream of unintelligible German, and the unmistakeable sound of glass shattering against walls.

"Think he's right ticked, mate." Lawrence rested the rifle against a knee and tipped his aviators back. "I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't, too."

Conagher nodded. The adrenaline fizzled in his veins, making it easy to feel wobbly-kneed and unprepared. He still had to finish the sentry, still had to get it broken down into bits that could be stowed in his toolbox and quickly assembled.

A scoff came from Billy's direction. He flung the baseball bat and pistol to the ground and stalked toward the spiral tunnel that led to the intelligence room.

"Where you off to, son?"

"Goin' for a walk." With one last dark look, the Bostonian disappeared down the tunnel. Within ten seconds, he was running, letting the stale air and dust whip his face and distract him from the face that dogged his thoughts like a shadow.

Annie.

God, he'd been so stupid. Stupid to think he could walk – or even run – away from the Mann brothers. Stupid to assume he could put everything behind him and try to have something resembling a normal life, a family even. He was twenty-three, for God's sake. Wasn't it time for him to slow down?

Lights flashed overhead like strobes, and suddenly he was standing in the rectangular corridor that separated the tunnels from the intelligence room. Computers, still running even after two years of disuse, flickered from behind bulletproof glass.

Billy fought the urge to slam his fist against it, see just how hard that glass thought it was.

Annie.

The anger turned to something softer, and he rounded a turn toward the intelligence. It sat on a low table in front of him, covered in a film of dust and cobwebs that mirrored every available surface in the room.

He made several rounds, pacing from one end of the room to the other and running both hands over his close-cropped hair.

He hated to admit it, but donning the black pants and running shoes and short-sleeved shirt made him feel different. Less domestic, more capable. Every groove and nick in the baseball bat had sent a wave of familiarity washing over him, all wind in his face and searing sunburns and the absolute exhilaration of nonstop movement.

To be honest, it worried him. Made him wonder if the guy with the bat was who he really was, and the ruse was the man who dropped into bed every night and curled up next to Annie.

Annie.

Damn it, there she was again.

Billy realized he was perched on the table, one knee tucked against his chin. The other knee bounced furiously.

For a moment, he let his thoughts run the way they wanted. What would Annie say, if she knew where he was? How would she feel, knowing he was hours away from having an artificial heart implanted in his chest, and days away from being expected to gleefully beat someone's skull in?

He almost laughed at the thought of it. This was Annie, the girl who cried when she killed a moth. Knowing where he was would drive her mad. But it was a job, and a better-paying one than he'd had since he'd met her.

Billy sighed. Six weeks, they'd said.

Then he'd put New Mexico behind him and find her.

Annie.

(-)

"It hurt worse than I remember." Lawrence rubbed at a patch of inflamed skin just below his sternum. It sat slightly higher than the flesh around it, as if something hard and rectangular had been installed inside.

The other seven mercenaries stared up at him from a row of uncomfortable chairs that lined the medic bay, a brightly-lit room far cleaner than the rest of what Teufort had to offer. A set of swinging doors waited at one side, their circular windows stained with splotches of dried blood. On the other side, Niklas hummed, the noise interspersed with the sound of metal instruments tinging against each other.

"Next!"

No one stood. Instead, they looked at each other, eyes wide, remembering the last time they'd gone through those double doors and come out as immortals.

And, of course, it had hurt. A lot.

Finally, Conagher took a deep breath and climbed to his feet. "Reckon I'll get this over with."

Inside the room, Niklas waited next to an enormous stainless steel table. A red-tinged wet rag sat in a bucket that reeked of disinfectant, along with a handful of spacers and scalpels.

Niklas looked like Christmas had come early. "Ah, Herr Conagher. If you'd be so kind." He gestured at Conagher's shirt.

The Texan swallowed and, in one motion, pulled his t-shirt off. Cold air prickled his skin, and it didn't take long for goosebumps to cover his arms and chest. Unfortunately, the table was even colder when he dropped onto it.

Chuckling, Niklas flipped a switch on an enormous medi-gun mounted over the bed. It hummed to life, glowing red and bathing the doctor, table and Texan in warm red light, not unlike a heat lamp.

But it wasn't just the relief from the frigid air that made Conagher grateful for the gun. It would be the only thing to keep him alive throughout the procedure.

Niklas patted Conagher on the shoulder and gave hm a reassuring smile. As far as Conagher was concerned, in the red light the doctor resembled Satan himself.

"I'm afraid zis may sting a bit."

Then he drove a scalpel into the hollow beneath Conagher's throat.

The Texan gasped. The blade hadn't gone far enough to pierce anything vital, but that didn't matter, because for a moment all he could think of was the blinding pain, and the tugging feel of the doctor unzipping his skin from throat to stomach.

And then, with a rush of warmth, the gun took effect and the pain vanished, leaving Conagher to stare down at his own innards with a mixture of fascination and utter revulsion.

"Oh, how I have missed zis, Herr Conagher." The doctor's smile stretched from ear to ear. "It is not ze same, you know, pulling organs from corpses. I much prefer my patients alive. And conscious if at all possible."

Conagher grunted. He couldn't take his eyes off the gentle rise and fall of his own pale pink lungs.

"And zat is to speak nussing of ze technology barrier." A spacer widened Conagher's chest cavity by several inches. "Why, if zis were anywhere else, you vould be dead."

Another grunt, and another spacer. A set of tiny clamps appeared next to the doctor, who carefully attached them to the four enormous veins leading from Conagher's heart.

"Ve vill have to cauterize ze capillaries, I am afraid. Zere are just too many..." The doctor's voice trailed off, and he shook his head, as if he was only just realizing what he was up to. "But you von't notice, Herr Congaher. Ze gun vill keep you from noticing."

A series of gentle tugs and nudges came next, as the doctor carefully removed Conagher's heart. For several long moments, Conagher stared at it, watching it quiver and shudder until the doctor dropped it into a cooler filled with ice and a viscous green liquid the Texan couldn't identify.

"It vill be good as new ven I put it back, I promise." Niklas stepped away from the table and approached a dented refrigerator, pulling the door open and removing a throbbing red lump contained in an enormous petri dish. With a grin, the doctor brought it to the table and rested it on Conagher's chest.

"And now, Herr Conagher, the implantation."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's notes:<strong> A big hoopah to **Deischer**, the 100th person to put TLH on their alert list! It's pretty cool, to think that 100 people care enough about the story to want it on their alerts! As of right now, 72 people have this story as one of their favorites, which I think is pretty freaking awesome too. :3 You guys are the best, srsly.

One thing I've wanted to do recently is check back in with some of the characters that haven't gotten a lot of screen time lately, like Billy and Niklas. The way I wrote this, all of the mercenaries brought baggage with them to the fort, and I'm looking forward to playing with ways for said baggage to affect them this time around.

I don't think I need to say it, but none of the heart transplant is grounded in any kind of medical fact. XD It's based on the "Meet the Medic" video and that procedure. I didn't research it too much, for ultra-squeamishness issues.

_**UPDATE 5/3 -** _No new chapter tomorrow, 5/4. Life is in the process of kicking my butt. Next update set for 5/11. Sorry guys.


	26. Chapter 26

Even with the medi-gun's healing rays pointed directly at Conagher's chest, it hurt.

God, it hurt.

Conagher gritted his teeth and willed himself not to scream. A resounding crack as his ribs separated, pulled apart by the doctor's hands and kept separated by gel-like spacers. Against his better judgment, the Texan chanced a glance at his torso, only to feel a rush of dizziness and nausea when he saw his own lungs, stomach, intestines, _heart_, staring back up at him.

"I vould not advice you look." Niklas smiled down at his patient. His eyes, tinted red from the gun's glow, danced with glee. "Ze last sing I need is you going into shock, Herr Conagher. It vould complicate ze procedure."

Conagher swallowed and, though every nerve and muscle screamed in protest, he dropped his head back onto the table and stared at the ceiling.

"I am afraid ze hearts ve used ze last time around vere not viable after two years of disuse," Niklas said, waving a scalpel-wielding hand conversationally. "And from vat I understand, ze mega baboon population has, ah, diminished."

"Then what do you intend on using?"

The doctor gave Conagher a friendly pat. "I have a prototype I vas developing ze last time ve vere here. An artificial heart, one compatible vis all ze Mann's technology. Ze respawn, ze uber, ze kritzkreig, ze quick fix. No surgical updates necessary."

Conagher thought back to the hours he'd spent in the surgery room, semi-conscious as Niklas attached dozens of gadgets to the uber-ready heart. The kritz adapter, which synced with their weaponry and made every bullet, every fist, every step more powerful. The quick-fix, that hot-air rush of instant health good for tight situations and battles demanding the fastest of responses.

A wrench, and Conagher's ribs cracked more. He gasped, hands clenched on each side of the table.

"Alright, here ve go. Like riding a bicycle, yah?"

Though the medi-gun dulled most of the sensation, Conagher was still aware of the sudden pressure in his chest. There was a squelching noise, and the unmistakable sound of scissors snipping through arteries and tissue.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped.

And Conagher became painfully aware that he lacked a heartbeat.

At the end of the table, Niklas chuckled as he dropped Conagher's now-still heart into a cooler filled with liquid nitrogen. Next came a fist-sized device that glinted and pulsed, its surface covered in wires and ports designed to push and pull blood through the body. If everything went as it should, the Texan's new heart would be beating in his chest in less than three minutes.

Niklas smirked. A far cry from his back-alley organ farm, to be sure. He'd missed the smell of blood – _real_ blood, not the reeking, congealed mess that came from hours or days of inattention. The adrenaline rush that came from working on living, breathing patients, the feel of their hearts beating, lungs surging beneath his hands.

The smirk widened as Niklas readied the artificial heart over Conagher's chest. It had to be quick – already the medi-gun was knitting the Texan's tissue together, threatening to cover the man's chest entirely. Niklas doubted Conagher would be terribly pleased at finding himself without that particular piece of machinery.

With an elbow, the doctor nudged the medigun closer, concentrating the beam on the shuddering mass of arteries and tissue where the Texan's heart had been. Then, in one fast movement, he shoved the artificial one inside, twisting it into place.

The spasm was so hard it nearly sent Conagher off the table. A coldness, eerily similar to the stainless steel table beneath him, throbbed in his chest, familiar and completely alien at the same time.

"Stay still!" Niklas hissed, firm hands guiding the gun's rays to attach the two coronary arteries. The skin crept over the metal tubes, fusing the heart into place with pink-tinged tissue. Conagher gasped – the sudden rush of blood to his lungs felt like fire.

In all, the process had taken less than two minutes.

"Vell done, Herr Conagher." Niklas's voice was a murmur, a soothing presence to keep the man still while the doctor pulled the spacers from between his ribs and allowed them to settle back into place.

Slowly, the bursts of color faded from Conagher's vision, and he felt his breathing settle back into a steady rhythm. He could feel the new heart, too – still cold and stiff, but beating just the same. He took a deep breath and, with Niklas's help, stood. His legs were shaky, but they held.

"And this... this'll work, doc?" Why hadn't he thought to ask that before the surgery?

Niklas nodded. "Herr Kozlov's implant vas successful vis ze uber, kritz and quick fix."

"You're missin' the most important one. What about the respawn?"

"Ze respawn vas successful as vell." The doctor's face was impassive.

"Who'd you test it on?"

A pause. "Myself." He peeled off the blood-drenched gloves and dropped them on the table. "If you vould be so kind as to tell Herr Fischer he's next on your vay out?"

(-)

The rule sheet appeared on the desk that evening – a two-page list of what the men could and couldn't do on the field, and a full page of the increasingly-threatening consequences should they disregard them. To Conagher's relief, modified technology, such as the now-assembled sentry stowed in the corner by his bunk, was not mentioned.

"Makes me wonder what the Blu team's cooked up, though," Lawrence said, long legs dangling over the balcony. The fort across the bridge was just as dark and still as it had been the first night, but if the men strained they could hear bits of conversation and the occasional sound of machinery from behind the weathered walls. "Maybe they've taken to the sewers."

"Stayin' close to the intel room, I'd wager." Conagher smoothed a folded corner on the rule sheet and sat the packet down next to his coffee mug. "Maybe they know somethin' we don't."

"I have a theory."

The voice came from around the corner, followed by heavy footsteps and the unmistakeable silhouette of Doe. A dented helmet, which he'd insisted on wearing since finding it in his locker, obscured the top half of his face.

Lawrence rolled his eyes, but still turned to look at the soldier. "Yeah? What's that?"

"They're in cahoots with the mole people. Probably under our feet right now, listening."

"The mole... what?" Conagher frowned. "You're not serious."

A look of incredulousness dawned on Doe's face. He opened a pouch on his belt and pulled out a crumpled magazine that bore the words "UNDENIABLY STRANGE BUT TOTALLY TRUE" printed across the cover. "Surely you've heard of the mole people, man! Why, they've dug miles of tunnels beneath your very homeland, deep in the heart of Texas!"

Rifling through the pages, Doe finally settled on a section filled with crude sketches of men with bulbous eyes and whiskers. "See? Right here, a thirdhand account. This woman's cousin's veterinarian..."

"Doe-"

"It's true! They wouldn't print it if it wasn't!" He thrust the magazine into Conagher's face. "Look, here they show all the tunnels that lead to the Pentagon! _The president is one of them_!"

Conagher resisted the urge to snatch the magazine from Doe's hand, roll it up and smack the soldier over the head with it. "Alright, we'll keep that in mind when we plan our attack."

Doe nodded sagely. "Knowing is half the battle, men." At that, he stowed the magazine back in the pouch and stood, disappearing around the corner.

"Taken one too many blows to the head, that one." Lawrence chuckled and took a swig of coffee.

"You're just now realizing that?"

"Nah." Lawrence gave a two-fingered wave to Fischer, who appeared on the far end of the balcony and approached them.

The redhead's shirt was unbuttoned, revealing an enormous red welt over his scar-peppered chest. From what Niklas had said, attaching Fischer's new heart had been difficult, given the enormous mess of scar tissue that covered the man's torso. Fischer rubbed at it gingerly, wincing at the lump where his new heart pressed at the skin. He didn't think it was supposed to hurt now, hours later. But the doctor had insisted it was functional, and would work perfectly in the field.

"Guess we're all bionic men now, huh?" He dropped next to Conagher and took a swig from the carafe. Lawrence grimaced, but said nothing.

"I reckon so," Conagher said.

"So have you figured out how we're gonna approach this?" A hand at his chest. "I mean, we need a plan of action, right? Something that's new, that they won't be expecting?"

Conagher raised an eyebrow. This was coming from a man whose battle strategy had, more than once, involved charging the entire opposing team and setting as many of them ablaze as he could before they took him down.

"I figured we'd discuss all that tomorrow. Do a run-through in full gear or something."

"I can't-!" Fischer paused for a breath before continuing. "I'd rather know now. It's hard for me to contribute when I'm, y'know, suited up."

And Conagher couldn't wait for that to happen, though he wouldn't admit it out loud. The few moments when Fischer had been in full gear – the coveralls, the air tank, the gas mask – had kept him quiet, and kept Conagher from thinking about the way they'd dragged Antoine back to the fort. It was easier for him to look at Fischer as a voiceless, faceless and featureless entity hidden behind a mask.

"Y'don't have to wear the mask, mate. Not til the fighting starts." Lawrence leaned back and eyed the carafe. After a moment, he sighed and refilled his cup. "We're out of coffee. I'll grab more."

He stood, stretching through a series of pops and cracks in his joints, and walked back to the barracks, leaving Conagher and Fischer in silence.

Fischer frowned. Ever since they'd gotten back to the fort, Conagher had avoided him. He knew it had to do with Antoine's kidnapping, but something had to be done, didn't it? If Antoine hadn't been on the train, none of them would be here now. They'd needed someone to take charge and get the job done, even if it was distasteful or messy.

Right?

The silence stretched into minutes. Fischer stared at his scar-streaked hands, trying to memorize every crease and line before they disappeared behind heavy gloves and sleeves. If this was anything like last time, the only time his skin would be exposed would be at night, when it was too dark to see much of anything. And he'd start to forget, until he could barely even remember his own face beyond a shock of red hair and an enormous scar. He'd begin to wonder if the mask _was_ his face, and if the flesh beneath it was the fake part.

It wasn't the pain or the killing he dreaded most of all. It was the forgetting.

"I won't apologize, you know." Fischer's own words surprised him. "I'm not sorry for what I did. Someone had to do it."

In the semi-darkness, Conagher stiffened. "You're an honest one, I'll give you that. But it's not you I'm havin' trouble forgivin'. It's myself, for standin' by and lettin' you do what you did."

Darkness enveloped them fully, then, leaving nothing but voices and shadows. Conagher left so quietly that it wasn't until Fischer heard him swing around the corner that he realized he was alone.

(-)

"Alright, folks, gather 'round."

Grumbling, the Red team formed a rough circle around Conagher, who was in the process of using rocks to pin an enormous map of Teufort to the floor. The sun crept over the horizon, sending chain link shadows over the courtyard where the men stood.

"Ivan, you're standing on part of the Blu fort."

With a grunt, the Russian shifted. Since being reunited with Sasha, Natascha and the other weaponry that made up his arsenal, Ivan had been quieter and less detached from the others, his eyes small and determined.

A breeze flitted through the courtyard, hot and dry and promising another scorching day at Teufort. Which was just as well, Conagher thought – at least the weather was consistent, which made it easier to work out the Red team's attack plan. In twenty-four hours, they'd be waiting for the siren that would send them into battle for the first time in more than two years.

Antoine leaned over the others, one hand rubbing at his chin. To Conagher's surprise, he seemed very interested in their plans – a strange thing coming from a man who tended to disappear during battle and reappear only when a sentry needed sapping or the Blu team's Heavy needed a knife between the shoulder blades.

"I don't see how this is any better than what we worked with last time," Antoine said finally. "It looks the same to me."

Conagher shook his head. He still had trouble meeting Antoine's eyes, but when he spoke his voice was firm. "That's only the first assault. We want them to think we're a one-trick pony. Draw them out a bit, see what they have up their sleeves."

"Ah."

"The rest of it will come later. We don't-" Conagher cleared his throat "-quite have the details ironed out yet, but I reckon it will work."

What he didn't mention was the fact that he and Niklas had stayed up most of the night discussing a way to sabotage the Blu team's respawn technology. Not kill them, as Conagher had emphatically insisted, but lock up the process so they were stuck and knew it. So far the doctor's ideas tended to err on the side of letting a few Blus expire, but Conagher suspected there would be a way to keep the casualties – _real_ casualties, at least – to a minimum.

A handful-sized chunk of hay shifted in the corner of the courtyard, tossed by the wind. Fischer looked up and frowned, but Conagher kept his attention rooted to the plans in front of him.

"Three main exits," he said, indicating the balcony, front entry and sewer. "If my sentry does its job, it should be able to distinguish between friendlies and the Blu team's spy, even if he's cloaked."

"Impressive," Fischer murmured, his eyes still on the now-disheveled haystack in the corner.

"I think so, yeah. Far as I can tell, best place for that guy will be in the hay stacks, covering the balcony entrance and anyone who wants to jump through the grate. If someone does manage to make it downstairs, the sentry'll bottleneck them to the straights and we can concentrate our defenses there."

As he spoke, the tension lifted from Conagher's shoulders. Regardless of the situation, the Texan always felt better when he was explaining something.

The hay stack shifted again. Fischer muttered a curse and straightened, striding toward the corner with twitching fingers.

"Calm down, mate, it's just the wi-"

"No it's not." Fischer aimed a kick at the haystack, his eyes narrowing as his boot stopped in seemingly thin air. A muffled snarl came from the corner, followed by a shifting, shuffling noise that caused Fischer to lunge toward the pile.

As he moved, he grabbed hold of something in front of him, and was suddenly pinning a tall, thin man in a blue business suit face-down to the ground. The man tried to shift, only to cause Fischer to dig his knees further into the man's back.

"Filthy spy. Be glad my stuff's upstairs," Fischer said through gritted teeth. "Otherwise you'd be extra crispy by now."

"Lot of good that would do you," the Blu spy said, his smirk evident in his voice. "Send me right back home? Would that help you?"

"And what're you doin' around here, then?" DeGroot, like the others, now stood around the Blu spy, his arms crossed and good eye narrowed. "We've still got a day of ceasefire."

"You're fools, all of you. While you've been in here setting up house, we've been infiltrating your base." The Blu spy chuckled, even though Fischer was dangerously close to dislocating his arms. "The fight's begun. And you've already lost."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong> – Let me start by apologizing (with as much sincerity as I can express from behind a computer screen) for my unexpected absence last week. It's never my intention to leave you guys hanging – a big part of showing appreciation for readers, I think, is caring enough to stick to a schedule. But last week was just one big explosion of crazy. Long story short, we had one less person at work, so I was doing their work and mine during one of the busiest times of the year. Plus, I've been scrambling to put together original stories for a few different reasons – the biggest being that next month, I'll be participating in a writer's workshop with Peter Beagle (author of The Last Unicorn and so many other great stories) and I have to have five thousand words of copy ready to go for him to critique by June 15. I'm hovering between excitement and nausea every time I think about it.

Now, for the bad news – there won't be an update next Friday, either. I'm taking a 'vacation' (which usually consist of me sitting on the couch in my pajamas watching Rifftrax) from work and all other things writing at the insistence of a few people who don't want to see me go crazy. If everything goes as planned, though, there shouldn't be any more missed updates after that, with the exception of June 15 (writer's workshop) and July 20 (Tokyo in Tulsa).

This chapter might make it obvious, but I love giving my characters deep-seated issues. I'm wanting to do some exploring with Fischer's identity struggles, so don't be surprised if he gets a little more screen time in the next chapter. And I'm pretty sure Niklas testing the respawn technology on himself will warrant a flashback. I can't let something like that go without fleshing it out.

And, last but not least, a couple of shoutouts. First, to **Smorgesborg** for pointing out that it's the quick-fix, not the vanilla medigun that the Medic uses for surgeries in the Meet the Medic video. I was going by memory when I wrote the last chapter, but I'm just going to call it artistic license and hope everyone understands. XD And second, this is a month late, but a HUGE HUGE HUGE thanks to **Mistakendragon815. **I finally remembered to check my non-work email Wednesday, and when I did I found some AWESOME fanart of Niklas and Conagher. There aren't enough ":D"s in the world to accurately describe how I felt when I saw it. If she uploads it somewhere and is cool with me sharing it, I'll post the link to it in the next update. And, as always, a HUGE thanks to the people who have added TLH to their favorites and/or alerts, and left reviews. Your encouragement is an enormous part of what makes this story so enjoyable for me.

Hope you enjoyed! See you in two weeks!


	27. Chapter 27

They found the spy-bots behind the walls.

Semi-sentient and prone to pinching, the tiny robots – which tended to move from side to side and made a hissing noise when startled – did their best to avoid the Red mercenaries' prying fingers, scuttling into tight spots and sending more than one of the men into a cursing tirade.

When the prying fingers failed, the Red team resorted to boots.

"Hate these damn things," Conagher said, grinding his heel into the wooden platform as he stomped out another bot. It let out a tiny, anguished scream before being crushed into a smoking pile of gears and wires. "Dunno what that fool on the Blu team was thinkin', givin' bots that much free will. Slippery slope, if you ask me."

Lawrence didn't reply. He was too busy concentrating on the metal tongs in his hands, working them into the spaces between the walls where the bots were as plentiful – and hard to reach – as cockroaches. Finally he felt the tongs close around something that clanged, followed by a frantic wriggling that could only mean he'd nabbed one of them. He pulled the tongs out and let out a triumphant laugh – trapped between the metal teeth was a spy-bot, its eight legs wheeling and tiny masked face contorted in fury.

"Here ya go." He passed the tongs to Conagher, who opened the tongs and, before the bot could get away, crushed it like its brethren.

Several feet away, in a corner of the hay stack, the Blu Spy glared at them. That was all he could do, given the fact that he was tied to a chair and guarded by a certain Spy-hating magazine writer. It had taken Conagher nearly an hour to convince Fischer to leave the man in one piece. The sound of crunching metal echoed from the Red side of Teufort, evidence of the team's efforts in finding and destroying the tiny, angry gadgets.

But it made Conagher nervous too, because this kind of preparation on the Blu team's end made him wonder if the spy bots were the only kind of surveillance they were under.

"Think we've got all of 'em out of this wall, mate" Using Fischer's lighter to light the thin space, Lawrence pressed an eye against the hollow seam between the walls of the hay stacks and the entrance to the fort's spiral staircase. "Not seein' any, at least."

"Good." Conagher lifted a paint brush that dripped heavy, beige-colored plaster. "Let's fill 'er in so the little bastards can't get in there again."

Before long, the seam between the walls was invisible, and Conagher breathed a relieved sigh. During the last break, he'd determined the men had crushed at least thirty of the bots, and it looked like three or four of the bots were distributed to each room.

"You still haven't told me what you plan on doing with this one." Fischer sat with his back to the hay stack's north wall, his eyes locked on the Blu Spy. "I feel like I'm babysittin'."

"You are," Conagher said.

"And you don't think there's better things I could be doing?"

"Let me put it this way." Conagher wiped his hands on his pants, leaving plaster stains at each hip. "I reckon we can't take our eyes off him, especially since we don't know what kind of gadgetry the other folks have come up with in our absence. And if anyone should be guardin' him, it's you."

Fischer frowned. The Texan had a point. During their last stay at Tuefort, Fischer – or whoever he became when he was behind that gas mask, at least – had turned understanding the opposing team's Spy into an art form. To the point where he could almost anticipate the man's movements and recognize the cloaking mechanism from yards away.

But that didn't stop the redhead from crossing his arms and sulking anyway.

Lawrence pushed his aviators up the bridge of his nose. In the afternoon light, the glare from their lenses was almost as bad as the sun itself.

Slowly, in teams of twos and threes, the other mercenaries made their way up to the hay stack, each one carrying a plastic bucket filled with spy-bot remains.

"I don't like it," Lawrence said. "It's too easy."

"That's easy for you to say," Billy muttered around the badly-pinched finger he'd jammed in his mouth. "Little bastards. I'd rather deal with mobsters."

"Y'gotta look at the big picture, though." Lawrence eyed each man around him in turn, including the Blu Spy, who returned the look with a murderous glare. "Sure, it's all fine and dandy to throw a couple hundred of these little monsters into the base. But they had to have known we'd catch 'em, yeah?"

"I was thinkin' the same thing," Conagher said as he dumped a dustpan-load of spy-bot parts into one of the buckets. "Their engie'n myself never exactly got to be bosom buddies, but if he thinks anything like I do – and he probably does – then he'd never let something like this be their only line of surveillance."

Fischer kicked the leg of the Blu Spy's chair. "Why don't we untie him and let him tell us, then? A couple charbroiled fingers might open him up a bit."

Antoine's eyes narrowed. "I suppose that is standard procedure for you, you-"

"No." Conagher's voice was firm. "We ain't resortin' to torture. We're better'n that."

Fischer sighed, but said nothing in reply. After a moment of silence, Lawrence cleared his throat.

"I say we stick to the plan we had before. Let Doc and Tex look into ways to-" he dropped his voice so the chair-bound Spy couldn't hear, "-y'know, screw up their respawn. And at the same time, we keep an eye out for any more of the Blu team's gadgets. Tex, is there anywhere in the fort that's a hundred percent safe from prying eyes or ears?"

Conagher thought for a moment. "Inside, no. But it'd be fairly easy to set up some kinda electromagnetic perimeter in one of the open areas, like the balcony or the courtyard. Scramble any bot's programming so they can't hear or see us."

"How long would that take, mate?"

"Couple hours, at most."

Lawrence nodded. "Good."

"Herr Conagher and I vill continue to research ze Respawn technology, once he has finished ze perimeter." Niklas leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. "I believe ve can have somesing viable by ze beginning of tomorrow's match."

Even better. Lawrence ran a hand over his face. He didn't have high hopes for their success – he was beginning to think it'd take a miracle for them to survive the first day – but maybe, just maybe, if enough miracles stacked up, they'd be okay.

(-)

It was early evening when they finally decided what to do with the Blu Spy.

"Let 'im respawn," Conagher said.

Moving so fast he was almost a blur, the redhead leaped to his feet, hands balled into fists. "You're joking."

"No. We don't have anywhere to put him, and there's no way Helen'll let us start a match with a prisoner." He turned cold eyes to the Blu Spy and, in one quick motion, yanked the gag away from the man's mouth. "I'm sure you're aware of the suicide command, yes?"

The Blu Spy spat, smacking his lips several times before he spoke. "Of course."

"Then use it. We'll meet you on the battlefield tomorrow, fair and square."

Before Fischer could protest, the Blu Spy slumped forward in his restraints, suddenly limp and unresponsive. Niklas stepped forward and pressed two fingers to the hollow beneath the man's chin. "No heartbeat. He has respawned."

As if on command, the Blu Spy's body flickered, like a television losing signal, then vanished entirely.

Every line in Fischer's body emanated fury. Making a noise that was half-growl and half-wail, he spun on his heel and stormed into the barracks, allowing the door to fall shut behind him with a clap. Yanking the gas mask off its shelf, he threw himself on his bunk. Fischer turned the gas mask over in his hands. Ever since they'd gotten back to the fort, no one had listened to him. No one had even bothered to act like his opinion was something worth acknowledging.

Just like before.

Maybe coming back had been a bad idea.

Sighing, he eyed the latest copy of Miss Middy Magazine, still lying where he'd thrown it on his bunk. He'd been gone less than a week, and it already felt like years since he'd sat down at his desk and tried to fix other peoples' lives. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he missed it. Missed feeling like his opinion was important.

"It's gonna be alright, y'know." Billy dropped onto the bunk across from the redhead and shrugged. "At least, that's what they keep telling me. I dunno whether or not to believe 'em, but it's nice to hear."

The gas mask was smooth in Fischer's hands. "Tex told me what happened, with your girl."

For a moment, Billy's expression flickered, from careful neutrality to something soft and sad. "When I get back, I'll go to the ends of the earth to find her. Even if it takes forever."

"I hope you do." Fischer dropped the gas mask next to the magazine. "Least one of us deserves a happy ending."

(-)

Niklas and Conagher didn't sleep that night. While the other mercenaries snored and thrashed in their battlefield dreams, the doctor and the Texan hunched over a grubby wooden table they'd dragged to the middle of the courtyard. When they spoke, their voices were hushed.

"I think I found the catalyst," Conagher muttered, adjusting the kerosene lamp in front of him. The yellow-brown light illuminated a crudely-drawn diagram of the Red team's respawn hub. "It has our DNA signatures – skin samples – right? It's not so much bringing us back to live as cloning us, over and over."

Niklas nodded. "Everyone knows zat."

"Well, what if we found a way to scramble the signature? Steal the skin samples and run 'em through our machine, so when they do respawn, it traps them back in our room. Lock it from the outside, and then let them see us destroy the samples."

Niklas eyed the Texan and, for a moment, didn't reply. When he did, his voice was cautious. "I know you vant to get through zis vissout casualties. I admire zat. But it vould be ten times faster to destroy zeir machine entirely. Zey vould figure it out quick."

"Out of the question." Conagher locked eyes with the doctor. "It's one thing to blow a man up, knowin' in five seconds he'll be sittin' up in his bunk cursin yer name, but it's another matter entirely to kill one of 'em permanently."

"Zey vould do it to us, if zey could."

"I'm not too sure of that, Doc." Conagher rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair. The lamplight flickered in the wind, throwing shadows across the table. "I mean, how hard would it have been for their bomber to wire this place with a truckload of C four and blow us to smithereens the moment they knew we was back?"

"Perhaps zeir orders-"

"Damn their orders!" Conagher slammed a fist on the table, nearly upending the lantern. "How often have we danced around our orders since we came back? I can almost guarantee you their orders mean about as much to them as they do to us."

Niklas didn't reply. His spectacles reflected the lantern's flame, making it difficult for Conagher to read the man's expression.

"If we can convince Antoine to sabotage the machine, bring the samples back to us, it'll be over for 'em." Conagher stood, rolling the diagram into a cylinder. "Trust me on this, Doc. You know our machine backward and forward. It'll be a cakewalk for you to fix it so they're respawnin' on this end."

Conagher twisted the lantern's lever, cutting the flame short and bathing the men in the red-gray darkness of early morning. Without another word, the Texan turned and stalked up the stairs, stifling a yawn with his free hand. Maybe he could snag thirty minutes of sleep, before the call to arms. He knew he should rouse Antoine and try to convince the Frenchman to help them with their plot, but the thought alone was enough to make him feel sick.

In the morning, then. Before the siren.

Until then, Conagher pushed his nerves to the side and let the thought of the new face-recognizing sentry, its brushed-metal surface gleaming, calm him. He was prepared. He was ready. Or he would be, when it came down to it.

And if he told himself that enough times, maybe he'd start to believe it.

(-)

The siren was louder than Lawrence remembered, and came earlier, too. The Australian jerked upright so fast he nearly fell out of his bunk, a whispered curse his first words for the day.

The clock on their desk read six-fifteen.

Conagher dragged himself into a sitting position and tried to rub the gritty feeling from his eyes. He'd managed an hour of sleep, which was more than he'd expected but not nearly enough to feel coherent enough to face the day. As he swung his legs over the side of his bunk, his leg brushed the sentry's surface. He hoped Helen wouldn't notice he'd be lugging it, pre-assembled, into the courtyard. During their last stay at Teufort, the announcer had been a stickler for assembling weapons only during set-up time or when the match was ongoing.

Moving quickly despite being half-asleep, the other mercenaries readied themselves for the match. As Lawrence lumbered through the room that housed their lockers, he saw Fischer, brow furrowed as he buttoned his coveralls up to his throat.

"Suppose it's back to charades for me," the redhead said, his voice tight.

Lawrence managed a weak smile. "Won't be that bad."

Fischer shrugged and pulled the gas mask over his head. He took a deep breath of filtered air, and the smell brought back memories of adrenaline and terror and anguished screams.

And fire, too. Mostly fire.

After a moment's hesitation, Fischer dropped his lighter into the breast pocket of his coveralls. Next came the calf-length boots and the gloves that made his hands feel ten times larger.

"Sixty seconds!" Helen's voice echoed over the siren. It was followed by a chuckle. "Good luck."

The reminders came every ten seconds after that. By the time she reached twenty, the men were assembled on the balcony, hiding yawns behind fists and shifting from foot to foot. Fighting off the nerves that, two years before, had been all but forgotten.

"Don't worry, Sasha." Ivan cradled the minigun so close it pressed against his cheek. "Ivan keep you safe. We break filthy Blu Scout's kneecaps together."

With trembling fingers, Conagher connected the sentry's two main wires together. He was rewarded with a loud beep, followed by the sound of metal shifting as his creation panned from one direction to the other.

"Suppose this is where we part ways, then, mates. Good luck to all of yeh." Slinging his rifle over a shoulder, Lawrence scurried up onto the roof above the barracks. From his vantage point, he could see the Blu team on their side of the fort, lined up near the balcony like their opponents. But they were missing a couple of people. He brought the rifle's scope to his eyes and scanned the rooftop.

And found himself staring into the barrel of a rifle identical to his own.

Ah, there he was. Moving by millimeters, he lined up his sights so they fell right between the Blu Sniper's eyes.

"Alright, you," he whispered. "Let's see who has the faster trigger finger."

"Three..." Helen intoned. "Two... One."

Lawrence fired.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> I am back! Fresh as a daisy, and ready to write about middle-aged men murdering each other! :D

The lovely **Mistakendragon815** uploaded her TLH fanart of chapters five and six! I won't lie, I squee'd when I saw it. Shamelessly. It won't let me upload a link, but you can go to_ mistakendragon815(dot)deviantart(dot)com/#/d50i98l _and check it out.

Also, if any of you have Tumblrs, send me a private message. I just recently got one of my own and I'm hunting for Tumblrs to stalk. If you're curious, it's _everythingsbetterwithtea(dot)tumblr(dot)com_. It's, ah, mostly snippets of my other projects, me fangirling (over things both TF2 and non-TF2 related), and the weird things I deal with on a daily basis.

Hope you enjoyed. See you next week!


	28. Chapter 28

A bullet ricocheted off a metal panel less than an inch from Lawrence's left ear. Through the scope still pressed against his eye, he saw the Blu team's sniper readying for another shot.

Damn. He'd missed.

The Australian cursed and shifted, trying to keep as much of his skin away from the searing metal as possible. A second bullet pinged off the rooftop in front of him, forcing him to scuttle sideways like a crab toward a corner post that served as a makeshift shield. He reached the post and spun around it.

Pressing his back against the post, Lawrence watched as the Blu sniper hunted for him, the man's movements marked by the tiny red dot that jerked and twitched on the building in front of him like a moth on a lamplight.

At least, Lawrence thought, he was keeping the sniper's attention off the others. Especially Ivan, whose shining bald head and lumbering gait made him an easy mark for anyone with a high-powered rifle.

Lawrence suppressed a mirthless chuckle. Just like the old days, it was.

Finally, the dot stopped, hovering just past the post in the exact location Lawrence's head would be if he were to try and peek around it. The Australian frowned.

Well, fine then, if that was how he was going to be.

Lawrence crouched and readied his gun. Then, in a movement so fast it surprised him, he swung himself around the post and fired.

The Blu sniper dropped.

"Still got it, ol' boy," Lawrence muttered to himself, stifling a chuckle.

"Very good, Sniper." Helen's voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once, so quiet that the Australian suspected no one else could hear. "First blood."

But his celebration couldn't last long. In approximately ten seconds, he knew his opponent would be back up and out for his blood. And there was a good chance he'd try to set up somewhere Lawrence wasn't used to checking, like the bottom entryway or even the rancid moat below.

The rifle still pressed to his eye, Lawrence eyed the rest of the courtyard. He'd worry about the other sniper in a moment.

Right then, all he wanted to do was get his sights on the Blu team's heavy.

(-)

"Herr Kozlov!"

The wall of flames descended on Niklas before he could react. With a bearlike roar, Ivan spun, minigun whirring and showering the Blu Pyro with a volley of bullets.

But he was too slow.

Niklas sat up in his bunk, his skin crawling with the memory of fire. It was always disorienting, the respawn. The human brain wasn't designed to restart itself, making each respawn an exercise in fighting through dizziness and muddled thoughts.

And Niklas, it seemed, had to go through it more than anyone else on the team.

Without fail, they always went for the Medic.

A shot rang out from above, so loud it made Niklas jump.

"Gotcha, you bloody fruit shop owner!"

Groaning, the doctor swung his legs off the bunk and stood, tucking his medi-gun under one arm and charging back outside. They'd been in battle less than three minutes, and already the majority of his team was pinging him for assistance.

"Is Medic on feet?" Ivan's voice boomed through Niklas's earpiece. "Ivan killed Blu pyro back. Stomped on corpse a little."

"_Ja_. Vere are you now?" Ignoring the repetitive pings coming from Billy's headset, Niklas dropped into the courtyard, gun in hand.

"Hiding in Blu sewers. Waiting for you. Soldier says is sentry ahead, on Blu team's steps. We need uber?"

Niklas took a deep breath. Truth be told, Doe or DeGroot would be better in that situation, but both men had been oddly silent since the beginning of the match, and he didn't feel like hunting them down through their earpieces.

But then, this wasn't exactly a run-of-the-mill match either, the doctor reminded himself. They weren't headed for the intelligence room, but to the grubby little door that led to the Blu team's medic bay.

Maybe a bull-like charge was the best course of action for that kind of attack after all.

"Vait for me, Herr Kozlov." Niklas sprinted down the steps that led to the Red team's sewers. "I'll be zere shortly."

(-)

The sensation was as close to sensory deprivation as Fischer would ever get. His vision was blurred, depth perception reduced to near-blindness through the gas mask's tinted lenses. The sounds were muted, too, blending together until Fischer thought of them as background noise. As far as he was concerned, just then the only sound that mattered was the steady cadence of his breathing.

He was faceless. Voiceless. An empty suit that spat fire.

But it had been too long. Far too long.

A flash of blue announced the enemy scout's presence. He was gone in an instant, breezing past Fischer and down the long staircase that wound to their intelligence room.

"I'll take care of the spiral exit!" Conagher stood several feet away from Fischer, gesturing toward his sentry. It was positioned in the corner of the hay stacks, muttering beeps and clicks and whirs as it panned from one end of the room to the other.

Fischer nodded and lurched across the walkway. He had a feeling his opponent knew exactly what waited at the top of the spirals. Chances were, the Blu runner would try to make his way back up the way he came.

Which would run him right into a wall of flames, if Fischer had anything to do with it.

Fingers tightening on the flamethrower, he descended the stairs, pausing at the blind corner at the bottom. Experience told him it would be easier to wait and ambush the scout here, rather than chance losing him in intelligence room itself. He pressed his back against the far wall – all the better to avoid any chance encounters with the opposing team's spy – and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. Helen's voice rang out through the fort, so loud every word echoed.

"The enemy has taken the intelligence!"

A heartbeat later, the faint sound of footsteps. Fast footsteps.

Fischer tensed, then, with the softest of chuckles, flung himself around the corner and turned the corridor into a hellish rush of heat and flames.

The scout shrieked once, but that was all.

"The enemy has dropped our intelligence."

(-)

"I don't get it." Conagher aimed a kick at his newly-erected dispenser. It shuddered to life, bathing its immediate area in red light. Beside him, Lawrence waited, one arm outstretched as a six-inch-long gash that ran the length of it slowly knitted together. "They're actin' just like they always did. Rush for the intel, fail, rush again. It's like the last two years didn't happen. It just don't make sense."

"Beats me, mate." With an appreciative sigh, Lawrence ran a hand over his now-healed skin. "Way I see it, we're lucky they 'aven't come up with somethin' downright nasty."

A volley of rockets announced the presence of the Blu team's soldier, who stepped into the corridor with a wicked grin on his lips. The sentry clicked, and before the Blu soldier could take another step he was nothing but a bullet-riddled mess on the wooden floor.

Conagher flicked a bit of blue fabric from his pants. "I suppose you're right. Just unsettlin', is all."

Lawrence shrugged. "Just focus on taking out their respawn. All we can do, right now."

An anguished scream echoed from the straights. Conagher raised an eyebrow. "Reckon he took care of the scout."

"Good for 'im." Bracing the gun against one arm, the Australian swung a leg onto the ladder. "One less Blu to worry about, fer now at least."

Conagher watched, his face expressionless, as Fischer emerged from the straights. A wide, sooty smear crossed the front of the redhead's coveralls, lengthening as he rubbed at it with a filthy, gloved hand. Without looking at his comrades, Fischer dropped into the courtyard's lower level.

"Just keep that spy away, you hear?" Conagher called after him.

A sinister chuckle was all he received in reply.

(-)

Billy coughed and spat out a lungful of rancid water. Pain radiated from his midsection, a souvenir from the storm of rockets the Blu soldier had rained down on him from the balcony above. Blood pooled around him, tinting the already-green water an unsettling shade of brown made darker by the shadow of the bridge above him. With a shudder, he pinged Niklas, but the communication system stayed silent.

Of course. That bastard would ride on Ivan's coattails all day long, like he always did. Completely ignore everyone else, save the occasional blast of health in Doe or DeGroot's directions.

Billy snarled. He'd strangle the doctor himself if he wound up with some kind of weird infection from this. God knew what was growing in the moat after two years of stagnation.

Every movement hurt, but the Bostonian knew he couldn't hide beneath the bridge forever. He shot forward, and lips tightly pursed to keep the water out of his mouth. Even after two years, the moat was full enough to nearly submerge him.

One hand pressed against the searing gash across his torso, he made his way toward the Blu sewers.

"Herr Walsch?" The voice came from the bend in the sewer and caused Billy to jerk so hard the side of his head collided with the concrete sewer. A string of curses flew from the Bostonian as he waited for the stars to clear from in front of his eyes.

"Yeah, Doc, it's me," he muttered once the profanity had worn itself out.

A moment later, the pain subsided well enough for him to see Niklas, the medi-gun pointed in his direction. A tingling warmth rushed over him that dulled the ache in his side, and within seconds erased it entirely.

Ivan stood behind the doctor, a half-eaten sandwich clenched in one hand. "You go with us, Scout?"

"What're you doing?" Straightening, Billy took a deep, grateful breath. "Hiding down here, I mean?"

"Ve are about to deploy ze ubercharge. Zere is a sentry ahead."

"Ah." Drunken cackling echoed from the end of the sewer, followed by a series of hollow thuds. When Billy turned to look, he saw several bright blue grenades, hurtling through the air toward the three of them.

The men leaped back, allowing the grenades to detonate on their own. Further ahead, the murky water rippled, just enough for them to see the outlines of a half-dozen sticky bombs.

"It vould appear zey know ve are here." Niklas tugged his right glove further down his arm. "Herr Kozlov, shall ve charge?"

Ivan let out a bellow in reply. Leaping over the waist-high rail that surrounded the platform in the sewer's bend, the Russian rushed forward as fast as he could, the minigun barrel spinning so fast it smelled of smoke.

Heart pounding, Niklas followed, one finger ready to deploy the uber charge in case an ambush was waiting before they reached the sentry. It would be a shame to lose it, but it would be even worse to be shot to ribbons and wake up in the barracks and have to do the entire thing over again. Unless... unless they changed tactics.

Billy trotted beside them, tapping his scattergun against his open palm. "So what's the plan?"

Water sloshed at Niklas's ankles. When he looked down, he saw the remnants of Doe's coat, along with chunks of rocket launcher and other things he didn't care to identify. He fought the urge to sigh. Two years, and it seemed like half the team had forgotten how to coordinate.

Then again, he was the Medic. He didn't have much of a choice but to rely on the others, as much as it terrified him at times. "You von't like it."

"When do I ever?"

"Ve need a distraction. Somesing... fast, zat can draw ze Blu team avay from ze balcony."

Realization dawned on Billy's face. "In other words, me."

"Vis any luck, zey have no idea ve are going for anysing but ze intelligence. So if you lead zem toward it..."

"It'll give you time to get to the medic bay." Billy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "They'll try to cut off the straights and the spirals, and you'll be headed in the opposite direction."

Niklas nodded. "Ve just have to clear out ze sentry."

"I can help with that too. I've outrun 'em before."

"I'd hoped you vould say that. Herr Kozlov, ze stickies, if you don't mind."

Gingerly, Ivan nudged the pointed grenades out of the way with a foot. To Niklas's relief, they didn't deploy. Someone was keeping the Blu team's demoman otherwise occupied. Good.

They topped the stairs and nearly ran into the demoman's back. He turned, reeking of hooch and sulfur, grenade launcher raised and ready to send a volley of explosives directly into Ivan's chest.

That is, until Billy collided with the man's stomach, sending him crashing to the ground.

"Go," the Bostonian hissed at Ivan and Niklas, his eyes alight. Reaching over his shoulder, he pulled his wooden bat out of its sling and tossed it end over end. "I got this." Then, to his opponent, who struggled to his feet. "Gotta admit, I missed this part."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: I am not at all happy with this chapter. Writer's block hit me about halfway through it and pulled anything resembling voice or organization right out. Sorry about that.

Generally, I try to keep individual scenes at least 500 words long. That would equal out to about two pages if this story was an actual book. But the next couple chapters will probably be fairly short, and a mixture of long and short scenes as a way to keep up with the multiple points of view and not be jumping backward or forward in time too much, or too far. I want to get everyone established before I hit the meaty plot point that's just around the corner. Once that happens I intend to go back to one character's point of view and stay there awhile.

See you next week.


	29. Chapter 29

The sentry saw them first.

It started with a beeping, almost quiet enough to be drowned out by the distant sound of the Blu demoman's shrieking. The sound grew louder with each step Niklas and Ivan took toward the courtyard, until the doctor was practically walking backward.

"Doctor's nerves not so good," Ivan rumbled, his back a mountain of brown denim and the glint of bullets. "Should maybe take deep breaths?"

"Nein, Herr Kozlov. I am fine."

But the beeping continued, faster and louder as they reached the courtyard and were suddenly bathed in mid-morning sunlight. Ivan swung around the corner and took the first step.

The beeping stopped.

Niklas tensed, jerking his head from one side to the other. He could hear it, but where the hell _was_ it?

"I think uber now, yes?" Ivan glanced back at his German companion. "I think they hear us."

"Of course... of course," Niklas muttered. "We'll take the stairs at a run, _ja?_"

Ivan needed no other encouragement. Bellowing, he lowered his gun and charged up the stairs, pausing only when Niklas hit the uber switch and sent electric charges crawling up and down their skin. Niklas tensed, waiting for the hot rush of the Blu pyro's compression blast, or the feel of a half-dozen grenades beneath his feet.

But none of that came, and the pair reached the haystack to find it completely empty. The ubercharge faded, blood rushing back to the men's extremities and leaving them feeling like their appendages had fallen asleep.

"But I heard..." Niklas trailed off, absently remembering to switch the medi-gun back to its usual setting.

Ivan, too, looked confused, though his look was quickly replaced with an expression that suggested Christmas had come early. "This perfect, Doctor. You break in, I stand guard. They all hiding like babies!"

"'Fraid not."

The voice came from behind them. Niklas spun and found himself face-to-face with weathered face that sported a Cheshire smile and the glint of welding goggles.

Behind him, in the entrance to the balcony, a sentry shimmered into view.

Then the bullets came.

Even with the health boost that tended to buffer the Russian against an attack, Ivan fell quickly. Niklas dove sideways, gritting his teeth at the sudden, searing heat prickling up his left arm. Buckshot, by the feel of it.

At least, Niklas thought, he was out of the sentry's line of sight. Or he hoped he was – if the damn thing could vanish from view, who was to say there wasn't another one, lurking just inches away?

"Run, Doctor!"

But there was nowhere to run. The Blu engineer readied his shotgun again, and Niklas's back was to the corner. For a moment, he crouched, frozen in place and eyes locked on the shotgun barrel.

Damn. He didn't want to do this all over again.

With a chuckle, the Engineer fired, sending Niklas scrabbling to the side.

"I got dis!" The voice came from out of nowhere. When Niklas looked up, he saw the Blu scout, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, shoulder the engineer out of the way.

That was all the opening Niklas needed. Using his good arm to pull himself to his feet, he sprinted for the metal door set between the spirals and the courtyard's entrance. To his relief, it opened, allowing him to slam it shut behind him and fumble for the flimsy chain lock.

A series of curses came from the other side of the door, followed by a yank that nearly pulled the chain out of the wall. Niklas threw a shoulder against the door, hissing as the buckshot dug deeper into the skin. Behind him, he could hear the rattle of stainless steel instruments, and the slosh of bagged fluids that he knew all too well. He'd made it to their medic bay after all.

In the back of his mind, Niklas was almost impressed. The Blu engineer had been busy in their two-year absence. The doctor wasn't much for electronics, but he knew integrating the spy's cloaking technology with a sentry was no easy feat. He'd have to tell Conagher about it, once he made it back to the fort.

"Get the Demoman!" The Blu engineer's voice was almost frantic. "We'll blow it down if we have to!"

Niklas swallowed and, his fingers shaking, pinged the other team.

"Assistance, please," he whispered. "Zey have me trapped upstairs."

Several seconds passed with no answers.

Turning so his back was pushed against the wall, Niklas stuck out a leg and hooked a chair with his foot, pulling it close so he could secure it under the medic bay's doorknob. The smart thing to do would be rush outside, let them take him down, and respawn. Try again.

But something kept him from it. Something Niklas couldn't quite pin down. Instead, he pulled the medi-pen out of his breast pocket and shakily ran it over the wound on his arm. Slowly, the bits of buckshot popped free from the skin.

"Ah, Mister Schroeder. I've been expecting you."

The doctor jerked, nearly upending the chair and starting a new wave of pounds and pings from the other side of the door. Squinting in the low light, Niklas's eyes fell on a slim silhouette perched atop a wooden stool. Cigarette smoke wafted to the ceiling, coupling with the blue indicator lights and making the entire room seem as if it were underwater.

"I have to say, I'm disappointed." Helen paused to take a long draw from her cigarette. "You did such a good job of following the rules the first time through. I would have expected this from the Frenchman, or that fire-eating maniac. Maybe even the Runner. But not you."

Niklas stared across the table, his dark eyes locking with hers. In the semi-darkness, the announcer looked for all the world like a reptile stalking its prey. "In our defense, ve suspected – quite rightly, might I add – zat ze Blu team vould have made modifications to zeir equipment."

"I didn't wait here for two hours to hear your blubbering," Helen snapped.

Niklas frowned, clenching the medigun in his hands. "Zen, vis all due respect, vhat _are_ you doing here?"

A slow, venomous smile spread across Helen's face. "I'm going to give you the information you need to win this war."

(-)

"Ivan lose doctor!" The Russian lapsed into a fresh volley of tears, clutching Sasha in both hands and accepting the battered handkerchief Conagher offered him.

The Texan fought the urge to roll his eyes. "C'mon, then, it ain't that bad. He'll come back. Fact that he's not back yet ought to tell you he made it somewhere safe."

"But Ivan _lose_ him! He will be so angry!"

Conagher fought the urge to sling his wrench at the Russian's head. "He'll be fine. Last I heard, DeGroot and Doe were in the Blu fort. They'll probably run into each other."

Ivan fell silent, though his breaths came in huge, hiccuping gulps and he clutched Sasha like a life preserver. Using his sleeve, Conagher wiped at the sweat beading off his forehead and sighed.

"If y'need somethin' to do, y'can stay here for a bit. Fischer just came over the comm and said their spy's headed this way. Extra pair of eyes never hurt."

"Yes! This is very good idea!" Sashaying over to the sentry, Ivan leaned against it and struck a jaunty pose. "Ivan is good lookout for spy-"

Unfortunately, his words were cut short by the sudden appearance of a knife blade between his shoulders. The Russian shrieked, then fell as the Blu spy shimmered into view, shoving a sapper against Conagher's sentry before the machine could react.

The bullets came next – slow, deliberate shots that sent Conagher scrambling for cover. From there, the Blu spy trotted toward the spirals, his chuckle audible even over the sound of the dying sentry. Yanking his pistol out of its holster, he sprinted toward the sparking sentry, firing blindly with one hand as he fumbled for his wrench with the other. The sapper ticked down the seconds, causing the sentry to hiss and sputter with each passing moment.

One last sputter, and Conagher's wrench made contact with the sapper, knocking it across the room. A steady stream of curses poured out of his mouth as he feverishly worked to save the machine he'd spent so many months perfecting.

After what felt like an eternity, and an infinite number of pops and whines, the sentry shuddered back to life. It clicked from side to side, slower than before

The barracks doors swung open, revealing a furious Ivan. He opened his mouth to speak, but Conagher cut him off with a glare.

"Fischer! _Fischer, where the hell are you_? There's a spy headed toward the intelligence room!" In the back of his mind, Conagher knew the intelligence wasn't their goal – that with any luck, Niklas was on his way back with the game-changer – but instinct took over, completely erasing the two years the Texan had spent forcing himself to smile and nod at abysmal arts and crafts projects. None of that mattered, all of a sudden.

Just then, all that mattered was the fact that the Blu bastard had, for the moment, bested him.

"Fischer!" He shrieked, so loudly the communication system crackled at his words.

An unintelligible garble came in reply, all muffled consonants and heavy breathing. "Mm hrr. Wrr?"

"He headed down the straights. I think... I think the sentry's good to keep him away from this door, but I need you down the other. Now!"

"Thrr crrmng!"

"What?"

An exasperated snarl came over the communication system. There was a pause, then the sound of Fischer's voice and a deep breath. "The Blu team's heavy and soldier are heading your way. I got their medic, but I had to drop down to the moat-"

The redhead erupted into a coughing fit, made worse by the fact that his heart felt like it was trying to pound its way out of his chest. The rancid water didn't make things any better, either. Floundering far enough across the moat to latch himself onto one of the bridge's support beams, he gave one more cough and spat out a mouthful of moat slime.

Maybe wearing the mask had its perks after all.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," he said. "But the Blus will get to you before I do."

Conagher's stomach felt like someone had dropped a boulder inside it. He turned to Ivan, who was halfway down the courtyard steps. "Wait up. I'll need a hand here... bunch of Blus on the way."

Ivan's eyes narrowed. "I have word with Blu team, I think."

"Right. Just watch your back. Fischer's headed this way, but the spy is still around."

In response, Ivan glanced around the courtyard and, after a moment's consideration, trotted over to the catwalk corner between the barracks and the entrance to the straights. He wedged himself into the corner, hunching his shoulders so every inch of his back was covered by wall.

"This good?"

"...yeah. That's good." Dropping his toolbox on the wooden floor, Conagher hastily assembled a rough teleporter and deposited it at the top of the courtyard's stairs. It wouldn't stop them, but it'd make it a little harder for the Blu heavy to hop up an additional step.

Now, with any luck they could at least hold their own until reinforcements arrived.

(-)

With a cackle, DeGroot flew over the heads of the Blu team's sniper and scout, raining brightly-lit grenades on them before they could react. He landed on the Blu barracks roof, bending his knees on impact and smirking at the sound of the two Blu mercenaries exploding into bits.

And the best part was, no one was going to go crying to the police. Or try to have him arrested for doing what he did best. Just an honest man trying to put in an honest day's work.

He unhooked a silver flask from his waist – the dark brown hooch bottles weren't quite his style anymore – and took a long draw, then drew the back of his arm across his mouth. A flash of movement caught his eye, prompting him to turn toward the haystacks and find a group of Blus clustered around the medic bay door. The Scotsman frowned and activated the communication system.

"Anyone stuck inside on Blu's end?"

"Ssssh!" Doe's voice was sharp on the other end. "I'm out here on the balcony. Think I'm gonna try stabbin' Crocodile Dundee here with his own arrow soon as he comes back."

Sure enough, moments later the Blu sniper, visibly irritated after being decimated by DeGroot's bombs, stalked out of the barracks and headed toward the balcony. A moment later he let out a high-pitched scream.

"Ahahaha! Got 'im! One for America!" An explosion, then Doe appeared on the roof next to DeGroot. The American's eyes were wide beneath his helmet, and his smile nearly enveloped his face. "What've we got here?"

"Looks like they're locked out, or sommat," DeGroot said, tapping the flask against his hip. "Engineer and Demoman are tryin' their best to get in. Not sure why."

Doe nodded sagely. "The mole people are fickle mistresses. They've probably turned on them."

DeGroot rolled his eye and swapped out his regular grenade launcher for his sticky launcher. Whatever the Blu team was waiting for outside the medic bay, he wanted to make sure they never got around to getting it.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: <strong>Another reminder – no new chapter next week. I'll be at a writer's workshop.

A shout out to **AlecTowser**, who noticed I'd done some wonky things with Billy's age throughout the story. It's fixed now – Billy is firmly and forever 23 in TLH-canon.

One thing I find interesting is several (not all!) of the people who send me messages asking critical questions about the story act like they expect me to fly off the handle in response. I promise, I'm never going to get mad at someone for being critical of the story, and I'm disappointed that it's so common for a writer to react that way that people have come to expect it. Anyone who cares enough about TLH to point something out to me about it, or ask questions about it... well, that's a huge compliment, as far as I'm concerned. I'm only human, and TLH is one of about eight stories I'm juggling right now, so chances are I'm going to get something messed up at some point or another. It's the eagle-eyed readers who point out those mistakes that keep me from looking stupid. ^_^

/soapbox

To answer **Anonymoose**'s question, since I can't send it via PM... I have no idea. XD I'm a huge Doctor Who fan, so it's entirely possible I subconsciously gave Niklas a sonic screwdriver that only works on organic material. Bahaha.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and to those of you who have added the story to their favorites and/or alerts. It's a huge encouragement to me, especially on those days where I'm fighting frustration and writer's block.


	30. Chapter 30

The bombs detonated before anyone on the Blu team could react. They blew apart, a tangle of arms and legs and other strangely-bloodless bits. Even the cloaked sentry, which up until then had buzzed and beeped in its hidden corner, collapsed in a heap of suddenly-visible metal.

DeGroot chuckled. "That'll give 'em somethin' t'think about."

He hopped off the roof, landing with a dull thud in the haystacks and approaching the now-dented and scuffed medic bay door. Whatever was in there, whatever the Blu team had wanted so badly... well, he was curious as to what that might be.

With a grunt, Doe followed, rocket launcher resting on one shoulder, as if he expected an attack at any minute.

"Watch yer feet, man. You never know when the mole folk'll yank you under."

"I'll keep that in mind." DeGroot tried the handle. It wiggled, but stuck, as if something was shoved against it on the other side. Frowning, he took several steps back, deploying another round of sticky bombs around the door.

"Y'might want to get back a bit."

At once, the sticky bombs exploded, rattling the door on its hinges.

But, to DeGroot's surprise and disappointment, it held. He cursed and hurried forward, counting the seconds to the Blu team's respawn in the back of his mind as he aimed an angry kick at the middle of the door. It clanged. Dented.

Still held.

Before DeGroot could ready himself for another kick, the door swung open.

"Ah, Herr DeGroot, Herr Doe." Niklas appeared in the light, and if his face was paler than it had been before, he hoped the Scotsman and Soldier didn't notice. He plunged one hand into his lab coat's pocket and swung his medigun onto a shoulder with the other. "If you vould be so kind as to escort me back to ze Red fort?"

(-)

It was all Conagher could do to keep from dancing as his new sentry sent a volley of rockets toward the Blu team's heavy. Instead of heading in one straight path, like his previous model, the rockets curved, swooping downward like deadly swans. On the other side of the catwalk, Ivan cackled and pointed Sasha in the Blu soldier's direction.  
>Without their medic, the two Blu mercenaries were helpless, and they knew it. After a moment, they stopped firing and retreated, disappearing below the catwalk and, Conagher assumed, either heading outside or toward the Blu team's sewers.<p>

"Fischer, we pushed 'em back, but I think they're comin' your way," Conagher said. A moment later, the redhead muttered something unintelligible in reply.

Above them, Lawrence's rifle echoed through the battlefield. The Australian lay prone on the roof, hat tugged to one side to shield his eyes from the sun. He'd been able to keep the Blu sniper from doing too much damage, but constantly scanning the bridge, the moat, and the Blu fort was beginning to give him a headache. He sighed. With any luck, Helen would call a cease-fire around noon and give the men a chance to rest. Or, in Lawrence's case, pop a couple of painkillers.

Movement on the Blu balcony caught Lawrence's attention. He squinted, then swung his rifle scope to one eye.

A grin broke out on his face.

Leaping off the balcony, with Doe in front of him and DeGroot behind, was their medic.

"Conagher!" Now that the sentry had quieted, Lawrence could hear the Texan shuffling about in the haystacks. "Tell Ivan his doctor's coming back. They're headed across the bridge now."

Conagher relayed the message on to Ivan, who nearly dropped Sasha in his excitement.

"Doctor is coming?"

"Sure is."

"And in all one piece?" The enormous man nervously rubbed at a smudge on Sasha's barrel. "Did Sniper count fingers and toes?"

"I'm sure he's fine."

"Yes... yes, he will be fine." A determined look flitted across Ivan's face. "I will meet him at the door."

"Whatever makes you happy. Just watch your back."

Ivan clambered down the catwalk steps, moving quickly for a man his size. "Doctor will watch Ivan's back! Just like old times, yes?"

Conagher didn't reply. Instead, he watched the Russian disappear beneath the platform, then turned to face his now-smoking sentry. The Blu spy still hadn't reappeared, but when – not if, _when_ – he did, Conagher wanted to be prepared.

(-)

Just then, Fischer would have given everything, every penny he made as a mercenary and an advice columnist, to pull off his mask and wipe the phlegm away from his mouth.

But he couldn't. At the moment, all that mattered was fire, and reducing his Blu opponents to cinders. He could feel the heat against his coveralls, feel it through the rubber of his gas mask. Smell it, through the barely-adequate ventilation system.

An explosion sounded on his left, and he spun, sidestepping the Blu heavy – that was the only way for him to take that behemoth of a man down, anyway – and pulling his flamethrower in front of him. Air blasted through the flamethrower's mouth, sending the rocket hurtling back toward the Blu soldier and throwing him back several feet.

When he turned back to the Blu heavy, the man was gone, disappearing down the sewers and shrieking of fire and burning. Fischer frowned. There were health kits in the sewers, and letting the Blu heavy rest down there wasn't the best of ideas.

He turned away from the sewer and glanced at the prone Blu soldier in the tunnel to his left.

God, his chest hurt.

A flurry of movement in the entryway sent him fumbling for his flamethrower, but it was only DeGroot, Doe and Niklas. The doctor nodded at Fischer, but the other two paid him no mind.

"A'right, Doc. We'll leave yeh to it, then." With a halfhearted salute, DeGroot trotted back outside. An explosion rattled the fort's wood frame – the Scotsman sending himself flying toward the Blu fort, Fischer guessed. Doe followed, rocketing himself into the air with a battle cry nearly as loud as the rockets themselves.

Fischer eyed Niklas up and down. Far as he could tell through the gas mask's tinted lenses, the doctor didn't seem to be any worse for wear. Maybe a little tired, but Fischer had a feeling he looked the same way beneath the mask.

"Herr Fischer," Niklas said, running a gloved hand through his hair.

"Doc." The word sounded like a cough.

"Do you require assistance? If you're heading to ze barracks, I can-"

Fischer shook his head and muttered something he hoped sounded like "I'm fine." No, what he needed was to get in the barracks for a few minutes, pull the gas mask off his face, and breathe properly. His heart felt like it was trying to pound its way up his throat. He turned and headed toward the courtyard, still on the alert for any enemies – especially the Blu heavy that would soon be sneaking up from the sewers.

"Ah, Fischer." Conagher's voice reached Fischer's ears as he topped the stairs. "I reckon that Blu spy's still around. Can you make a loop through the intel room? Make sure he's not hiding in one of the tunnels?"

Fischer's shoulders slumped. "Sure."

Getting a good lungful of air would have to wait, then.

The redhead took the straights' stairs two at a time. He was always surprised at how cool it was once he reached the bottom. The result of air conditioning, he supposed, and also the enormous circular vents that ran the length of the rectangular corridor that led directly to the intelligence.

Far as he could tell, the place was empty, but he shuffled through there anyway, stopping for a moment in the intelligence room and checking between the desk and the wall, the corner that butted up against a glass door, the little nooks and crannies that were the Blu spy's favorite lurking grounds.

It wasn't until he was straightening after looking beneath the desk that he realized someone stood behind him.

He spun, too late to avoid the butterfly knife that sank to the hilt in his side. Gasping was impossible in the gas mask, but Fischer did the best he could, momentarily frozen by the wet feeling that suddenly crept down from his ribs.

In one deft movement, the Blu spy yanked the knife away, earning a groan from Fischer. The redhead swung the flamethrower up, pulled the trigger.

But the spy was nowhere to be seen.

"I'm right here," the Blu spy whispered from just behind Fischer's ear. He jerked sideways, but the Blu spy was faster, taking Fischer's legs out from under him and leaving him sprawled on his back. The flamethrower hit the ground and skidded to the middle of the room.

Before Fischer could react, the Blu spy planted a dress shoe on his chest, pinning him to the ground.

"Oh, I am going to enjoy this." A smirk crept across the Blu spy's face. "How long do you think it will be before they notice you missing? A half hour? Maybe even longer?"

Fischer fumbled for the fire axe in his belt, only to find the heel of the Blu spy's shoe digging into his sternum. "No, I'm afraid we can't have any of that."

Pain lanced through Fischer – the raised area where Niklas had implanted his new heart felt like it was grinding through his ribs. He dropped his hands, allowing the Blu spy to lean down, fish the fire axe and the flare gun out of the redhead's belt, and toss them aside.

"Bastard," Fischer snapped, even though he wasn't sure his opponent could understand him. "I should've killed you when I had the chance."

"And what good would that have done?" A smirk. "I would have come back. Again and again, as many times as it would have taken to get through to you."

The redhead started to argue, but thought better of it. The ghost of a lecture – something about Niklas and Conagher insisting their plans to sabotage the respawn had to stay secret – appeared in his mind. "Then what's the point of getting to me? I'll just-"

"Let me stop you right there, my friend." The Blu spy leaned down and, before Fischer could struggle, yanked the gas mask off his head. "I couldn't understand a word you were saying. And I want to see your face."

Frigid air bit at Fischer's cheeks, and he blinked at the overhead lights that suddenly seemed three times as bright. "I asked what the point of getting at me was. I'll just respawn, just like you, once you kill me."

"Two things are wrong with your assumption." The Blu spy waved a hand conversationally. "First, you assume killing you is my objective. Oh no. That's just the result. What I want to do is make you hurt, as much as possible, in as many ways as possible."

"If that's supposed to scare me, it won't work. I've dealt with you a thousand times before. I've seen your worst, and frankly, I'm not impressed."

"And that, sadly, is where you are also incorrect."

Fischer saw the syringe then, the needle-tipped container filled with something that glowed bright green.

Green, just like the Blu spy's eyes.

The spy tapped the syringe with a fingernail.

Smirked.

And plunged it into Fischer's exposed neck.

It burned, filling his veins with fire that felt ten times hotter than what came from his weaponry. Suddenly, the Blu spy was forgotten, and Fischer writhed on the floor, hands clutching his neck as the poison worked its way through his system.

"Yes, I'm afraid that is a somewhat nasty side effect." The Blu spy stepped back. He watched Fischer with an amused, detatched expression. Like a child watching a fly after pulling off its wings.

"What... is..." The muscles in Fischer's throat protested speech, tightening until he could only gasp and gurgle.

But the Blu spy understood. "Our engineer has been hard at work, just like yours. And, like your engineer, ours came up with a plan to bypass the respawn system. The only difference is, while your team has been throwing themselves at us, we have been isolating you all, one by one. Lucky for you, you're the first."

Slowly, so slowly, the pain began to subside in Fischer's throat. All that was left was a tingle that spread through his extremities, like numbness, but colder.

"Our engineer realized, after much research, that the respawn system, at its core, deals in numbers. Data. Binary, he called it. When we are killed, we are reduced to those numbers, run through the machine, and rebuilt."

Fischer tried to sit up, only to find his limbs refused to cooperate. The Blu spy planted a foot on his throat.

"So, our engineer reasoned, what would happen if something messed up those numbers? If the code was flooded with junk information? It might take a time or two for the replication to really corrupt the code, but eventually, the respawn would fail."

Fischer's eyes widened.

"Oh, don't look so unhappy! The paralysis is only temporary, and like I said, it will probably take a time or two before you're good and dead. You'll probably feel terrible after your next respawn – slower, weaker, dumber – but maybe you can make yourself last another day or so. And that, my friend, is why I so look forward to killing you this time."

Slowly, almost tentively, the Blu spy opened his butterfly knife and drew a red line down the side of Fischer's face. The redhead jerked in reply, but said nothing, his eyes fixed on the Blu spy's face.

Another smirk. "It might not be your last, but it will be the one you remember."

The Blu spy leaned down, knife poised above Fischer's torso. "Shall we see what your insides look like?"

Fischer tensed. He could see himself reflected in the knife blade, eyes wide and, for the first time he could remember, terrified.

And then the Blu spy jerked.

Toppled.

Hit the floor, facedown, revealing an identical knife buried between his shoulders.

Antoine shimmered into view, a distasteful expression on his face.

"This changes nothing between us," Antoine said, glaring down at the prone form of the Blu spy once more before he turned on his heel and stalked away.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's notes: <strong>The scene where Antoine saves Fischer's life has been in the back of my mind since I wrote their falling out.

To **AuroraDragon83:** the character names were a mixture of info gleaned from the official TF2 wiki, tidbits from the unofficial wiki, and a lot of time on my part skimming popular names based on the time period and each class's home country. Believe it or not, some class names on the unofficial wiki have changed since November. When I started this fanfic, the Heavy's name on the unofficial wiki was Ivan (no last name), hence my name choice. As far as the Engineers go, yes, the Blu Engineer's official name is "Dell Conagher," and I thought I'd be clever and make my Red Engineer "DALE Conagher."

Thanks again to everyone who has favorited, reviewed, or added this story to your alerts.

See you all next week.

_EDIT TO ADD_: Whoops. I have forgotten to do this for a couple weeks now, but the freakin' awesome **MistakenDragon815** drew another equally-freakin'-awesome scene from TLH! It's from my favorite chapter - the very first scene, with Ivan in the bakery. :D You can find it at mistakendragon815 (dotdeviantartdotcom) /#/d5236ez (Just take out the parentheses and insert the dots in the right places... I was having more trouble than usual posting the link.)


	31. Chapter 31

_A giggle. Soft and low, but fast, and getting faster with every passing second._

_Fischer opened his eyes, only to find himself face to face with the round, oversized head of the Blu team's heavy. The redhead jerked and flung his arms out protectively, but to his surprise the Blu heavy just giggled and sat back on stubby, naked legs._

_Wait._

_Fischer squinted. Then blinked, hard._

_The Blu heavy was wearing a diaper. _

_The shock was enough to jolt Fischer into a sitting position. It was also enough to scatter the other tiny Blu babies from the semicircle they'd formed around him. They fluttered like cherubs, disappearing behind the brightly-colored boxes and oversized candies that bordered the bright green hillside where Fischer sat. Faint music echoed through the landscape, apparently caused by a bulging pink unicorn that frolicked its way toward him._

_A scream worked its way up the redhead's throat. He tried to stand, but his legs refused to cooperate. Frantically, he clawed at the ground, scooting himself along the hillside. But the unicorn was only getting closer. _

_The giggles resumed, and Fischer cringed. The cherub-Blus, apparently deciding he wasn't a threat, reappeared from their hiding spaces, swooping and diving around him, close enough to touch. A rainbow streaked across the sky, followed by something glittery that fell like rain and stuck in Fischer's eyes. He blinked madly, rubbing at his eyelids and cursing under his breath. The cherub-Blus tittered, though Fischer wasn't sure if their glee was due to his discomfort or his choice of language. _

_Suddenly, the noise stopped. Fischer ground the last of the glitter out of his eyes, and, bracing himself for the worst, opened them._

_The unicorn was there._

_Fischer flinched back. This close, the creature smelled like the inside of his mask, all rubber and stale breath. And, somehow, lollipops and bubblegum._

_It leaned closer. Opened its mouth._

"_Do you believe in magic?"_

(-)

"Alright, men. That's enough for one day." Helen's voice echoed through Teufort, annoyed and impatient as always. "We'll resume at dawn."

The ceasefire was unexpected but welcome. Almost instantly, the mercenaries headed for their respective forts, pausing only for rude gestures at their opponents and to shout the occasional threat.

But Fischer saw none of it. He lay on his side, cheek pressed against the tile floor, and took several slow, deep breaths. His heart pounded in his chest – though he didn't know whether that was a side effect of the Blu team's drug or the rainbow-tinted hallucinations. Feebly, he tried to reach the communication system at his throat, but his hands refused to move. Even a whispered curse was a struggle. Finally, he closed his eyes and brought his legs up as far as he could.

He didn't want to think about what would happen if the paralysis hadn't worn off by morning. What would the Blu team do if they found him here, helpless as an infant and just a few respawns away from a permanent dirt nap?

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside the intelligence room. Fischer tensed.

"Antoine said you'd be needin' some help." Conagher's voice was soft. "I reckon the two of you have some explainin to do, about what happened in here."

Without waiting for a reply, Conagher bent and slung Fischer's arm over his shoulders. Grunting, he stood, propping the redhead up with a knee. Fischer's face burned with embarrassment. He forced his eyes to stay fixed on the tile.

"C'mon, then. Whatever that spy shot you up with was some nasty stuff, from the looks of it. I don't mind helpin' you."

"I don't want your help." The words were out of Fischer's mouth before he realized it. "I want to find that spy and burn him until there's nothing left."

Conagher's arm stiffened. It took him several seconds to reply, and when he did, the words were slow and guarded. "I reckon that kind of thinkin' is what got you in this mess to begin with." He hooked his other arm around Fischer's hip. "Now c'mon. We'll get you up to Doc, see what he has to say. We'll send someone down for your stuff."

Slowly, the pair made their way up the straights, pausing more than once for Fischer to catch his breath. Outside the basement, the sun stood high overhead. The exchange between Fischer and the Blu spy had taken less than half an hour.

Lawrence waited for Conagher and Fischer at the entrance to the barracks. As they approached, the Australian trotted forward and slung Fischer's other arm over his shoulder. Conagher breathed a sigh of relief.

"Dunno how you run around in that thing, man. Has to weigh a ton."

Fischer didn't reply. If the Blu spy had been telling the truth, it was very much a possibility he wouldn't be able to run around in full gear anymore.

With Lawrence's help, the three mercenaries made it to the barracks, allowing Fischer to drop onto a wooden bench along one wall. Niklas appeared, then, and faced the redhead, arms crossed and expression businesslike.

"Tell me exactly vat ze Blu spy told you."

Fischer laughed emotionlessly and, with some difficulty, reached an arm up to rub at the injection site. The skin tingled when he touched it. "He said he shot me full of junk DNA, or something. Said it'll eventually bog the respawn down until I can't anymore. And until then I'll feel like crap. The entire Blu team is in on it. They're working to isolate us one by one, do the same thing to all of us."

Conagher couldn't help but feel a twinge of respect for the Blu team's engineer. The amount of research and expertise that would have gone into his plan... well, it was mind boggling. The thought of permanently killing anyone, even if they were on the other team, made his stomach turn, but the idea behind it. The idea behind it was almost beautiful.

"So what happens now?" DeGroot sat on a grubby wooden crate, a flask in one hand. "D'we just carry on as normal, let 'em pick us off one by one?"

Lawrence rubbed at the back of his neck and leveled his gaze at Niklas and Conagher. "If we had a sample, could you two study it? Figure out what it is, and how to cure it?"

"I'm afraid zere is no cure," Niklas said.

Conagher frowned. "And how d'you know that?"

"Because, Herr Conagher, I already have a sample."

The room went silent. Even Ivan, who until then had been crooning a lullaby to Sasha, stopped to look at Niklas.

"Ze Administrator vas vaiting for me in ze Blu's medic bay," the doctor said finally. "She knew ze Blu team vas vorking on a serum, somesing to affect our respawn ability. If ve had ze same serum, she said, ve could put an end to ze fighting. End ze war."

"Why is she trying to get us out of here?" Conagher resisted the urge to fling his wrench against a wall. "She's the one who brought us back in the first place!"

Niklas's expression changed from contemplation to stony coldness. "I believe ze Administrator is ze only von who can tell you zat, Herr Conagher."

The Texan's frown deepened. "Yer not tellin' us something, Doc, and I don't take kindly to that."

"You vill have to tolerate it for ze time being. I assure you, I vill tell you everysing as soon as I can." A moment of silence, then, "Herr Fischer, I need you to try and make it to ze Medic Bay. I can't eliminate ze serum, but I can combat ze symptoms for ze time being. Herr Conagher, if you'd like, you can run vatever tests you feel are necessary on ze sample I vas given."

Conagher nodded. "Dunno what good me lookin' at it will do this late in the game, but I'll give it a try."

"Very well." The dark eyes settled on Fischer. "Do you require assistance?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Fischer could see Antoine leaning against the far wall. The Frenchman's expression was unreadable. Fischer jerked his eyes away. He hated to admit it to himself, but he'd have been even worse off it it hadn't been for Antoine's intervention.

"I'll help 'im," DeGroot said, supporting Fischer so he could climb back to his feet. To the redhead's surprise, his legs, though shaky, could almost support him. Tentative relief rushed through him. Maybe the Blu spy had been telling the truth, and the paralysis was only temporary. If Niklas could alleviate the other symptoms... well, he might be good as new.

That is, if he could stay alive.

(-)

Fischer's breath came in slow, medicated bursts as he lay faceup on the operating table. A few feet away, Niklas hung an IV bag on a cabinet hook.

"Normally I vouldn't vorry about sedatives," he muttered to Conagher, who watched from a nearby stool. "But I'd razzer he didn't go into shock."

"You really think you can help him?"

"_Vielleicht_."

"English, Doc."

"Perhaps." Niklas attached the medi-gun to the enormous frame situated at the foot of the operating table. "But I believe it is more important zat you eizer replicate ze Blu's serum or ve figure out a vay to counter zeir plans."

Conagher shook his head. "I stand by what I said before. We ain't getting into killin' folks for keeps."

The doctor took a deep breath and leaned against the operating table. "I vas afraid of zat."

"What's that Helen woman up to, anyway? I think knowin' that would help me figure a way out of it."

For a moment, Niklas didn't reply. Instead, he stared across the room at Conagher, face reddened by the medigun's steady glow.

"Ze Administrator... she believes zere is another heir to ze Mann fortune. To ze land, ze money, all of it. And she believes zat if ve can stop ze fighting, ze third heir can take control. All of vich is to her advantage."

The implications of Niklas's words swam in Conagher's mind. A third Mann heir? Someone who wanted total control over the entire corporation? Who wanted to end the warring and the subterfuge and the land grabs?

And they'd landed smack dab in the middle of it.

"I still don't think it warrants killin' the Blus."

"I assure you, zey vill kill us if zey get ze chance."

"Then why the hell'd she bring us back in the first place? If the only reason we're all here is to murder each other."

Niklas adjusted his glasses. "Because ze Blu team is loyal to Blutarch. Zey vould not allow ze third heir to take control. She _vants_ us to vin, but she can't let anyone know zat."

"And what makes her think we'll line up behind this third heir?"

Slowly, Niklas straightened and walked around the operating table. His boots squeaked softly against the floor. "Because ve all made it in ze real world. Ze Blu team... zey've been here for years, Herr Conagher. Zis is all zey remember, all zey know."

"And you know that for certain?"

"Ze Administrator does." The doctor nodded toward the door. "She's had two years to vatch zem and see. Not once, she told me, did zey talk about leaving. Only about fortifying zeir fort, in case zey came under anozzer attack. Or about keeping Blutarch's property safe."

With a sudden snort, Fischer jerked in his sleep and turned halfway onto his side. Sighing, Niklas flipped the medi-gun switch off. The red glow faded from the room, leaving the men bathed in bright sunlight from the room's high windows.

Conagher stared at his feet. "I say we stick to the original plan for as long as we can. If the Blus start getting' the upper hand... then I'll reconsider. Did you get the stuff we needed to divert their respawn?"

A smirk. "Of course." The doctor jerked his head toward the table at the far end of the room. A grubby black satchel sat on top of it, partially unzipped.

"Good." He'd work through the night if he had to. "Can you do me a favor and tell the men to clear out the room at the back of the barracks? I figure that's where we'll put the Blus when we start catchin' em."

"_Ja._" Niklas took one last look at Fischer, who was now curled into a fetal position on the table. "Just let him sleep, I sink. It's vat he needs most right now."

"Sure thing."

Pulling the medic bay door open, Niklas disappeared into the hay stacks, leaving Conagher alone with a sleeping Fischer and a boggling amount of work that needed to be done. The Texan took a deep breath and pulled off his welding glove, using the collar of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He crossed the room, tugging the stool behind him, and sat down at the table.

Now, it seemed, the fate of all eighteen mercenaries rested in his hands. If he didn't sabotage the Blu respawn fast enough, his teammates would die. Which, in turn, would lead to the Red team duplicating the serum and killing off the Blus.

Conagher's hard hat clattered to the floor as he leaned toward the satchel.

At least it beat grading woodshop projects.

(-)

The moon stood overhead, casting long shadows across the courtyard as Conagher and Lawrence hefted a tangle of wires and panels into the barracks. DeGroot and Doe followed, carrying a thick chunk of metal that shone in the moonlight.

They'd been at it for hours, and, if Conagher's calculations were correct, these were the last pieces they'd need to divert the Blu team's respawn. Parts of it were already assembled and propped into a corner of the barracks.

"Y'think this'll work, mate?" Lawrence eyed Conagher from the other end of the panel.

Conagher nodded. "Pretty sure."

"Hope so. Otherwise we're in for it, I think."

Niklas looked up from the clump of wires he was untangling, but said nothing. To Conagher's relief, the doctor hadn't informed the men of their conversation – or of the way their plans would change if this respawn diversion failed. With any luck, they'd never know.

The next few hours passed in a flurry of activity, broken up only by the occasional bathroom break and Doe nearly electrocuting himself on the machine's fuse box. But by the time they stopped, the tall, silver machine could have passed for an official Mann Co. product, as far as Conagher was concerned.

It was beautiful.

"Alright, folks, here goes nothin'." Stomach churning, Conagher readied the plug at the outlet. Tensing, he plugged it in, eyes shut and listening as the machine hummed itself to life.

When he opened his eyes, the panel along the front glinted with alternating green and white lights. Behind him, his teammates gave a cheer.

"We good to go?" Lawrence's voice came from over Conagher's shoulder.

The Texan's grin stretched from ear to ear. "Think we are. We'll test her first thing in the morning."

(-)

For the first time in history, the Red team was ready to go when Helen's voice barked over the intercom the next morning. Including Fischer, though he moved a little slower than normal and would occasionally stop and shake his head, as if he was fighting lightheadedness. He ignored any attempts from the others to help him, though, and as soon as the siren sounded he situated himself in the hay stacks' corner and readied his flamethrower.

"Stayin' close today?" Conagher's voice was almost drowned out by his ratchet as he assembled his sentry.

Fischer shrugged.

The minutes passed in silence, save for the occasional burst of gunfire that echoed from outside the fort. Each time, Conagher tensed and fought the urge to run to the barracks and see if one of the Blus had respawned inside the now-barricaded back room. But each time, the sound of fighting faded away.

Finally, Conagher stalked to the barracks and yelled up to Lawrence. "What's going on out there?"

"Looks like Doc and Ivan are trying to lure 'em outside," Lawrence replied from his perch on the roof. "But they're not comin' out."

Well, Conagher thought, that made sense, if the Blu team's plan was to isolate the Red mercenaries. "I reckon they can't stay in there forever."

"Dunno, mate. Maybe they can."

Before Conagher could reply, Billy's triumphant voice shot through the fort.

"Got one of the bastards! Found 'im lurkin' in the sewer!"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's notes:<strong> So, Meet the Pyro. Four years of waiting (I started playing TF2 in 2008) and, far as I'm concerned, it was worth it.

To those of you who decided to give this fanfic a try recently (and there are several of you!), thanks for giving my little story a shot. And, like always, I very much appreciate all the favorites, alerts and reviews. They brighten my days.


	32. Chapter 32

Conagher reached the back room first. He skidded to a stop, eyes locked on the respawn machine that now whirred and hummed and blinked as it warmed up. A timer, set square in its middle, counted down from ten in enormous red letters.

The others filed in as the countdown reached zero. Not all of them – as far as Conagher knew, Ivan and Niklas were still making a nuisance of themselves at the Blu's front entrance – but most trotted in one by one, from an exuberant Billy to Fischer's masked expressionlessness.

"Who is it?" Conagher asked once Billy stood next to him.

"Their Scout." The Bostonian's face shone with glee. "He was sneakin' around in the sewers, like he was gonna head in here from there. Found this on him."

Billy held up a square, two-pronged metal device that looked to be something between a Geiger counter and an AM/FM radio. Conagher frowned. Maybe they could convince the Blu scout to tell them what it was.

A soft buzz as the counter on the respawn machine hit zero. The men leaned forward in unison.

It was hazy at first, nowhere as smooth as the Mann Co. respawn, but slowly, jerkily, the Blu scout faded into focus. He might have been Billy's brother – all knees and elbows, with a long, lean torso that suggested years of running practice. Even their faces were similar, except the Blu scout's eyes were narrowed and his mouth was twisted into a snarl.

"What's goin' on here?" The Blu scout flung himself off the floor. "What'm I doin' here?"

"Gotcha, didn't I?" Billy leered through the glass doors. The Blu scout drew himself up, as if he planned to throw himself at the glass, then appeared to think better of it.

"Yer in the Red respawn," Conagher said.

The Blu scout rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I caught that, genius."

A grin twitched at the corner of Conagher's mouth. "We diverted your respawn."

That was enough to drain the color from the Blu scout's face. "What? Why me?"

"Not just you. Your entire team."

Conagher could almost see the cogs turning in the Blu scout's head. After several long moments of silence, the Blu scout smirked.

"I got the suicide command too, y'know. See you losers later."

Conagher spread his arms. "Go right ahead, son."

The Blu scout slumped onto the floor, a tangle of limbs and blue-and-black clothing. The counter reappeared on the respawn machine, and ten seconds later, the Blu scout reappeared in the opposite corner. Laughing, he leaped up, only to see the Reds standing just outside the door. The laughter faded.  
>"Fraid you're stuck here." Conagher couldn't keep the smile off his face. "Just like the rest of your team'll be, when they respawn."<p>

"Not if I warn 'em first." The Blu scout's hand shot to the communication system at his throat.

Moving so fast he was almost a blur, Billy unlocked the glass doors and bolted inside, bat in hand. "Wouldn't do that if I were you, pally. Unless you think you've got a chance against me, and last I checked all you got's your fists."

The Blu scout opened his mouth to reply, then appeared to think better of it. Instead, he shrunk back against the wall, glaring daggers at Billy. For his part, the Bostonian kept the snide comments to a minimum as he yanked the communication system out of the Blu scout's collar.

"There we go." Billy smirked and gave the Blu scout's shoulder a friendly tap with his bat. "Think I like y'much better with your mouth shut anyway."

The Blu scout smashed against the doors as they shut behind Billy, clawing at the Bostonian and shrieking a series of curses that were so fast and loud they all ran together.

Ignoring the Blu scout's fury, Conagher smiled and turned back to his coworkers. "One down. Eight to go." He picked up the device Billy had taken from the Blu scout during their exchange in the sewer and tossed it from hand to hand, looking back at his captive. "Care to tell me what this is?"

"Screw you."

"Well, shoot, son, that's too bad." He turned the device over in his hands. "But I might not need your help to figure out what this little contraption's meant for. It's battery-powered, which means you Blu folks weren't necessarily planning on getting it back. The antenna here tells me y'all were plannin' on listenin' in to something we had to say." A pause. "I gotta admit, I'm stumped on the rest of it, but I'd wager its primary purpose is to listen in on us, possibly bust through the scramblers I put in place."

The Blu scout pursed his lips, but his eyes told Conagher that he was correct.

The Texan grinned. "I gotta hand it to your engineer. That man knows his work. In another life, we might've been great pals."

He dropped the panel onto a shelf in his tool cubby. Tonight, maybe, he'd take a closer look at it, see what kind of goodies the opposing team's engineer had stuffed inside. It was a veritable pinata of intel, far as Conagher was concerned.

"Runner!"

Billy hovered at the doors. "Yeah?"

"Do me a favor, will you? Since we're not attackin', will you poke your head in and check on this'n every so often?" Conagher jerked his head at the scowling Blu scout, who now crouched in the corner of the room.

"Sure thing." Billy grinned. "I'd be honored."

* * *

><p>Fischer stalked back into the haystacks, staunchly refusing to look at the pastel walls and the enormous lollipops that had apparently cropped up along the corners. The hallucinations were less vivid now, but they still unnerved him, at best. At worst, they terrified him, especially the cherubs that appeared in place of his Blu opponents.<p>

And his chest still ached, which only made things worse. By that point he'd stopped wondering if the heart was going to explode out of his chest, deciding instead to assume the mass of scar tissue that made up most of his upper body was the reason the operation had caused him so much discomfort.

"Feelin' better today?" DeGroot rested a hand on Fischer's shoulder. It took all of the redhead's willpower not to flinch away.

"Fine. Just fine."

The words were lost in the gas mask, but DeGroot seemed to understand them anyway. Nodding, he turned and disappeared onto the balcony. A moment later, an explosion outside suggested he'd rocketed across to the Blu team's side.

Envy burned at Fischer's face, turning the inside of his mask hot. Here he was, cowering in their base like a mouse, letting his teammates call the shots, take the risks. That wasn't the way it was supposed to be. His last time at Teufort had been all crazed, adrenaline-fueled rushes and the entire team running from the mere sight of him. A cacophany of screams and the sound of flames.

Snarling, he ripped the mask off, clenched it in his fist. He'd be damned if he'd just sit back and let the rest of the team do the work. Even now, with God-knew-what coursing through his veins, he refused to be a bystander. Refused to let the Blu spy reduce him to uselessness.

Besides. He could be careful. There had been times where he'd killed the Blus eight or nine times before going down. The only difference now was that caution was absolutely necessary.

"Doe."

The soldier stopped halfway across the haystacks."Yeah?"

"I'm coming with you."

Doe frowned beneath his helmet. "But Tex said you were stuck here in the fort. On accounts of that stuff the Blu team jabbed you with."

"I don't care. I'm coming with you."

Clearly confused, Doe glanced from side to side. "But... but you can't rocket jump!" The words were a crow of victory, and punctuated by a finger jabbed in Fischer's direction.

"I can run, though. I'll be across the bridge in the time it takes you to finish talking."

"Is that a challenge? I eat weaklings like you for breakfast! And then I eat other weaklings like you for brunch! Then my mid-morning snack! Then-"

But Fischer had already disappeared past the entrance to the balcony. Cursing, Doe followed, flinging himself into the air when he reached the platform's edge.

Below, running across the covered bridge, Fischer pulled the gas mask back over his face with one hand. Beneath it, he smirked, even as teddy bears appeared along the bridge's hand rails. He could do subterfuge. He could do stealth, and caution. And the Blu team wouldn't know what hit them.

Now he'd show the Blu spy exactly what happened when he messed with the living embodiment of an inferno.

* * *

><p>"Er, Tex? Y'might want to come look at this."<p>

Billy's voice came from the barracks. Conagher looked up from his teleporter and frowned. Something about the Bostonian's tone sent the Texan's stomach into nervous knots. He stood, stretched, and made his way to the barracks, only to freeze in the doorway.

Across the room, behind the glass doors, a dozen prone Blu scouts littered the floor.

"What the hell?"

Billy stood at the doors, hands in his back pockets.

"Dunno what happened. I stuck my head in 'ere to check on 'im like you asked, and I found this." He gestured at the bodies, scowling.

With a scowl of his own, Conagher threw the double doors open and stormed inside, kicking at the bodies with his boot. "If you're fakin' to get the better of me, boy, it ain't gonna work."  
>No response. Snarling, Conagher walked back into the barracks and to the respawn machine, glaring at the panel on its front.<p>

What he saw made the knot in his stomach twist even tighter. A series of numbers ran across the panel's front, flickering and obviously frozen in place.

"What is it?"

"I don't believe it." Conagher stared, open-mouthed, at the machine. "I never would've he could do that. I never would've thought he'd be clever enough to try somethin' like it in the first place!"

Billy rolled his eyes. "What is it, then?"

"The bastard jammed my respawn machine!" Conagher slammed his fists against the machine, denting the smooth metal side. "He must have used the suicide command so many times that it jammed and sent him to the secondary respawn."

"Which is...?"

"At their damn base!" Spinning, Conagher aimed another kick at the glass doors. The impact was enough to crack the bottom of one of them, sending spiderweb-like lines up its surface.

If the Blu scout had respawned back at the Blu fort, their plan was useless. The scout would've told his entire team what the Reds were up to. That meant the Reds had no element of surprise. No ace up their sleeve.

No chance of ending the fighting.

Not once, not _once_ since he'd stepped foot back on this godforsaken patch of earth, had something gone his way. From the spybots to Fischer to the Blu spy, and now his respawn machine, it had all been one failure after another. And through all of it, they'd laughed in his face, outmatched him.

Out_smarted_ him.

But no more.

Fury built in Conagher until he was sure it would explode out his fingertips. Even Billy, who tended to push his teammates' patience to their limits, took a step back.

"So what now?" he asked softly. "What're we supposed to do?"

Conagher didn't answer. Instead, his hand went to the communication system and activated it. "Doc."

"_Ja_, Herr Conagher?"

"You two still outside?"

"Outside ze Blu base, _ja._"

With narrowed eyes, Conagher surveyed the Blu scout corpses as he spoke. "Get back here. I need your help. I'm done playing nice. I'm reverse engineering the serum, and we're going to use it on the Blus."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: <strong>

Short chapter is short, and I have some bad news.

Originally I had planned on not having an update two weeks from today (July 20). Well, starting this Monday (July 9) a consultant will be coming to my work for some assessment things, and my publisher wants all hands on deck from 8 a.m. to at least 7 p.m. for the entire ten days he'll be here. That includes next weekend, and with a convention so close every spare second of my free time during those ten days will be for me to feverishly finish cosplays and props.

So. I really am sorry, and I hate having a break this long, but there won't be an update next Friday, or the Friday after that. I know you guys are all awesome and understanding about me having to keep up with real-life issues, but I still feel bad about it.

Now. That said. IF you plan on being at Tokyo in Tulsa, come say hi to me! I'll be the Twilight Sparkle in the MLP:FiM group (with a Fluttershy and Pinkie Pie) Friday, the RED Pyro with the RED Demoman Saturday, and the Kaylee Frye with Jayne Cobb Sunday. I'm very tall. You really can't miss me.


	33. Chapter 33

**THIS CHAPTER COULD BE TRIGGERING**. It deals with Niklas testing the respawn on himself, which does have some parallels to suicide. Just a heads up so you guys know.

* * *

><p>Conagher gripped the vial so tightly Niklas worried it would burst in his hands.<p>

"Er, Herr Conagher?"

The Texan followed Niklas's gaze, sighed, and loosened his grip. "Sorry. Reckon I'm just upset."

But really, upset was an understatement. Ever since the Blu Scout had escaped – right from under his nose, no less – Conagaher had moved like a man possessed. Every other thought that had plagued him since their arrival at Teufort – the new sentry, Helen's ambiguous references to a third Mann heir, what he would do if and when he ever got home – had been shoved into some dark, disused corner of his mind and left there to fester.

In the medic bay, a row of glass vials glinted in their holders, along with dozens of sheets of crumpled paper and eraser shavings. Real scientists would wring their hands at the thought of such a filthy workplace, especially when designing something to be used on a human body, but Conagher didn't have time to make sure everything was sterile, or to bother with labels or documentation.

No, just then all he could do was frantically scramble to replicate the viscous ooze inside the vial in his hand, and hope he did it before any of his teammates died.

Faintly, Conagher wondered why he was bothering at all. It would be laughably easy to drop everything and, one way or another, make his way back to the real world. He'd survived there twice, and he was sure he could do it a third time. Something stopped him, though, and he suspected it wasn't the thrill of discovery, or the way a challenge got his adrenaline flowing like nothing else.

As he lifted the vial up to the window, squinting at its contents, he knew the worry, and the rush, and the stress was because of the eight other men who had fought and died alongside him for God knew how many years.

Damn it. He cared about them.

Niklas leaned against a counter, arms crossed. He wasn't used to being the one sitting back and watching, waiting to be told what to do. Especially when it had to do with the human body.

Even when the body in question was his own.

(-)

_Sighing, Niklas irritably pushed his hair out of his eyes. He leaned over the counter, elbow-deep in the metal and wire guts of his latest flash of brilliance. Sure, he couldn't take full credit for it – the Mega Babboon hearts just weren't viable after two years in cooled petri dishes, otherwise he'd have just used those again. They worked well enough, even if the men complained of banana cravings and the urge to pick nits out of each others' hair. _

_But this. This would be even better._

_He smirked, carefully applying a valve that would mimic the movements of an organic heart's chambers. It shuddered beneath his hands, a lump of stainless steel and lubricant and multi-colored copper wiring. The smile widened as the shudder turned into a regular thrum._

_He had the thing beating._

_The doctor paused, pulled away from the table, and ran a rag across his forehead. He doubted sweating in the uber device would do it any favors. Now that it was operational, he couldn't risk any mistakes before it was closed up and inserted into a body. His mind wandered. Ideally, he'd do what he did their last go around – kidnap a member of the Blu team, remove his head so the respawn would activate, and keep the body alive long enough to experiment. Technically it wasn't against the rules, and it gave him a guinea pig with a disposable body. Plus, he had a feeling his Blu counterpart had done something similar._

_This time, though, would be a bit more tricky. With a cease fire in place and Helen's cameras prowling Teufort like whirring tigers, Niklas doubted he'd have the opportunity to that particular bit of fun. _

_There was Ivan, too – always willing to stick his neck out for his beloved Medic. Though Niklas doubted the enormous man quite understood what was happening to him. And despite the fact that Ivan had been his first Red uberectomy during their last stay at Teufort, Niklas had performed the surgery on a dozen headless Blus before he'd gone with Ivan. _

_He looked up, catching his reflection in the grubby mirror that sat above the corner sink. Another tendril of graying hair threatened to drop into his eyes, and with a grumble Niklas tucked it back behind his ear. _

_His reflection stared back at him, all haughty eyes and confidence. _

_And just then, an unbidden thought jumped to the front of his mind:_

"Why not?"

_(-)_

_The surgery itself was less harrowing than he'd thought. With the medi-gun firmly locked in place, it had just been a matter of tugging off his shirt, making sure the mirror he'd hung from the ceiling was in the right place, and stretching out on the operating table. Aside from having to remember he was watching the mirror image of his movements, it was just like any other operation._

_Except he felt it all, in a detached, echoed kind of way._

_The tugging came first as his scalpel slid into his flesh like a knife into butter. Niklas paused as the blade sank in, taking a deep breath and steeling himself. _

_He'd done this before, and he could do this again. The only difference this time was he would be the first to undergo the operation. _

_And the last, if he screwed anything up._

_Another series of cuts, a device that spread his ribs, and Niklas stared at his own organs. For a moment he just looked, impressed, as always, at the body's internal clockwork. The beating heart, the blood rushing through veins and the soft swell of his lungs. Absently, his hand roamed the table beside him for the set of tiny clippers. _

_It was now or never._

_Less than ten minutes later, Niklas nudged the lid of a smallish plastic cooler with his toe. It slid shut, allowing the doctor to tug the spacers out of his ribcage and, using the medi-pen, reattach the skin over his chest. It was as easy, Niklas thought, as slowly zipping up a sweater._

_The uber heart had kicked in almost instantly, the valves and flesh merging until they tangled together like vines. Niklas pressed a hand against his now-smooth chest and closed his eyes, smiling at the mechanical heart's thrum beneath his palm. _

_Like clockwork. Only now more so. _

_A faint smile tugged at his lips as he swung the medi-gun so it pointed directly at his chest. He ticked down the seconds, until the gun gave off a soft buzzing sound that let him know it was ready to go. Then, in one swift movement, he leaned over and flipped a switch on the gun's side._

_Red light spiderwebbed from his chest, covering his skin like a sheen. It happened so fast he barely followed the movement – within seconds, his entire body glowed red. _

_Chuckling, the doctor turned to face himself in the mirror once more. A wild-eyed demon stared back at him, red from top to bottom and grinning from one ear to the other. _

_God, he was good._

_The light faded, leaving tingling whispers across his skin that reminded him of pins and needles. So the heart responded to the medigun. That was good to know. _

_Just the one other thing to test, then. _

_The doctor's eyes fell on the handgun resting on the countertop. The smart thing to do would be test it on one of the men – at least then, if it failed, he'd be there to bring them back. _

_But he caught one last look at the dark, feral eyes in the mirror. A long blink. Then, slowly, a breath._

_He was a genius. The best doctor in the northern hemisphere. What could go wrong?_

_Ten minutes later, the doctor straightened his collar, carefully averting his eyes from the too-familiar corpse crumpled beside the counter. He could see the corpse's lifeless eyes, mirrored in the pool of blood slowly spreading from beneath its head. Despite himself, Niklas felt his throat tighten. He'd expected glee, or pride, or excitement. _

_Not the nagging, scratching sensation at the back of his mind that whispered, so softly even he could barely hear it, that even the smartest of men made mistakes. And it only took one._

_But he wouldn't think about that. And he'd clean up the mess later. _

_The medic bay door swung shut, hiding the corpse from sight. _

(–)

"Doc!"

Niklas jumped, colliding with the counter surface and nearly upending the vials. "_Ja_, Herr Conagher?"

The Texan gave Niklas a long, curious look. "You alright? I've been tryin' to get your attention for dang near five minutes now."

"Just thinking. My apologies."

"It's fine." Conagher took a deep breath. "Just... I'd appreciate an extra pair of eyes on this. This is really your area of expertise, what with it workin' on the human body and all."

He held up one of the vials, handing it to Niklas before turning back to the microscope in front of him.

"So what now?"

"Hm?" Niklas rocked the vial back and forth, his eyes locked on the viscous liquid inside.

"Well, the way I see it, we do this, we get rid of the Blus..." The ghost of a frown crossed Conagher's forehead. "What then? They send us home? The end? Game over, like it was before?"

"I suppose ve vill have to find out, Herr Conagher."

The Texan shook his head. "That don't sit right with me. I feel like we're caught up in something, and no matter what we do the wrong guy's gonna win. Even if it is that third heir Helen was talking about."

"...are you saying you don't vant to go home? You vant to keep fighting, forever?" Niklas set the vial in its holster.

"Not what I'm saying at all, Doc. I just... I want to know more about what it is we're doing, before we do it. That make any sense?"

Niklas shrugged. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but the thought of going back to scavenging for spare parts like some back woods madman made his stomach turn. He made more advances at Teufort in a month than a year anywhere else. At the same time, though, something – whether it was imagining another string of endless battles, or the reek of living with eight other men – made the doctor almost yearn for the fighting to be over.

He was conflicted. Not something he was used to.

"Are you asking me vat I sink ve should do, Herr Conagher?"

"No! I mean, no, I'm not. I mean, this is what the guys want, right? For the fighting to be over?" Tension rippled through Conagher's shoulders.

"I don't know vat ze men vant, Herr Conagher. Beyond victory."

"Then what do _you_ want, doc?" Conagher slid away from the microscope and scratched at his scalp. "Do you think we're doin' the right thing, by going along with what Helen said?"

"Honestly, Herr Conagher, I do not know."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> Hey, guys. Thanks for hanging in there the last three weeks. It's been a busy, crazy time for me and I'm glad to be back. This update wasn't exactly plot progression, but like I said several weeks ago, I wanted to go a little deeper on Niklas testing the respawn system on himself. And since we're getting close to the end of the story, I felt like it was now or never. Plus, being away from this story for three weeks made it tough for me to jump right back into the plot - I felt like I needed to get back in the mercs' heads after a whirlwind of real-life chaos. But I missed Niklas. He's an interesting one to write.

First and foremost, I have some pretty cool news. My short story, "The Keeper of the Trees," will be published in an upcoming anthology called "Holiday Magick" early next year, both in Kindle and print. The anthology chronicles alternative origins or explanations for holiday traditions. To say I'm excited about this would be a huge, huge understatement.

One more thing. There will be a slight change in the update schedule. Because of work issues (I sound like a broken record with this, but I swear it just keeps piling up – my managing editor unexpectedly left two weeks ago, which means an enormous amount of extra work for me and the features editor) I'm just plain not going to have time to work on TLH as much as I'd like, at least until they hire a new managing editor. And I would be thrilled if I could finish writing my novel by the end of the year. :) So, for at least the next few weeks we'll be doing updates every other Friday.


	34. Chapter 34

Fischer pressed his back against the Blu fort's sewer stairway, cursing at the sound his air tank made against the concrete. In the distance, he could hear Doe calling for him. The redhead rolled his eyes. Taken too many shovels to the head, that one – it'd be at least another ten or fifteen minutes before Doe realized Fischer had slipped into the moat at the far end of the bridge, putting an end to their supposed race and ensuring he had enough time to get away.

To his relief, the hallucinations appeared to have faded, replacing railing with lollipops and crates for bow-topped packages. But he still felt like hell. He fought back a cough. The back of his throat burned, leading all the way down to his lungs. But the feeling was nothing compared to the rage that twisted through him.

That damn Blu spy would burn, too. And soon.

Doe's voice faded until Fischer was sure he'd gone back into the Red fort. He could almost imagine Conagher standing on the balcony, screaming for Doe to get back onto their side before one of the others could catch him.

A snort worked its way up Fischer's throat, echoing through the corridor behind him. Far as Fischer was concerned, he refused to act like a rabbit, cowering in tunnels and waiting for the enemy to swarm.

At least this way he could take a couple of them down with him. Show them who was boss.

Faintly, a voice in the back of Fischer's head reminded him that any damage he did to the Blu team would vanish when they respawned. That what he was doing was stupid, senseless, reckless. With a snarl, Fischer clamped down on those thoughts so tightly they disappeared.

This wasn't about the bigger picture. This was about that bastard spy, and reminding him that playing with fire often led to being burned.

As quietly as he could, Fischer climbed the sewer stairs, leaning around the doorway just enough to peer into the fort itself. Even through the gas mask's tinted lenses, Fischer could see the bottom level was empty. He frowned. He knew the Blu team had squirreled themselves away for going on two days now, but he'd expected to see at least some sign of life inside the fort. Dirty socks, half-empty bags of chips, _something_.

Gripping the flamethrower tightly in both hands, Fischer prowled the lower half of the Blu fort, every nerve on edge for the slightest sound or feeling that could indicate someone else was nearby. He knew all too well just how well the team could hide – the cloaked sentry, the spy-bots, even the Blu spy himself.

A breeze flitted through the courtyard. Though Fischer couldn't feel it, he flinched at the sight of the tumbleweeds straining against the chainlink fence. A soft curse was lost inside the gas mask. Acting like a coward, that's what he was doing.

The voices reached him before he made it to the stairs. Without thinking, Fischer flung himself below one of the courtyard platforms, wedging his flamethrower in front of him and sending a silent prayer that he was lost in shadow. Faintly, the voices continued, though the redhead couldn't make out the words.

And, to his surprise, the courtyard stayed empty.

Slowly, tentatively, he crept out from under the platform, rubber boots crunching on the ground, and made his way back to the staircase closest to the Blu barracks. Halfway up, the voices became understandable.

"Tell us one more time what happened."  
>Fischer frowned, trying to fit the voice with a name. The Blu team's engineer – the brains of the operation, if Fischer remembered right.<p>

"They've screwed up the respawn!" And that would be the Blu scout. "It sent me to their side. That glass room at the back of the locker room."

A pause, followed by several different sets of grumbling voices. Fischer imagined the members of the Blu team shifting in their seats, eyeing one another nervously at this latest development. Despite himself, he smirked. If Conagher's plan hadn't failed, it would have been ingenious.

"And how did you escape?" The engineer again.

From inside the barracks, Fischer heard a frustrated sigh. "I told you guys ten times already! Suicide command, over and over, until it shot me back here."

"Gotta admit, son, I'm impressed you thought of that."

"I'm not stupid, y'know." The Blu scout sounded irritated.

Whatever else the Blu scout planned to say was lost beneath the Engineer's voice.

"Why weren't we informed about this? You're supposed to be our eyes and ears over there."

The words Fischer heard next made his blood run cold, even inside the sweltering coveralls and mask.

"I intended to inform you. However, certain events that have... transpired have made it difficult for me to simply stroll over here for a visit."

Fischer clenched the flamethrower so hard his knuckles ached. Even muffled, there was no mistaking that voice, or the air of cool indifference it always carried.

Antoine.

The redhead couldn't come up with an insult vulgar enough to fit the situation. That slimy, two-timing bastard had turned on them. A knot lodged itself in Fischer's throat. Suddenly it all made sense – the way the Blu team had managed to stay one step ahead of them the entire time.

They'd had a mole, inside the base. And unlike what Doe might think, the mole wasn't beneath their feet, but among them.

Fischer forced himself to focus on the Blu team's conversation. He'd missed a few sentences, but as far as he could tell the conversation still centered on Antoine.

"The serum's been tampered with." The Blu engineer's voice dripped accusation. "You know anything about that?"

"Of course not."  
>Fischer could almost picture Antoine, lazily sprawled on the barrack bench, a cigarette in one hand and the other stretched along the bench's top. Eyeing the Blu team with amused disdain. Fury clouded his vision.<p>

"If I find out you're two-timing us, Frenchie..."

A snort. "And what purpose would that serve? Blutarch's compensation is almost double what Redmond offered, and you're mistaken if you think I'm here for a reason beyond the money. The sooner we can get the Red team out of the picture, let Blutarch claim victory once and for all, the sooner I'm back at home, with another seven figures added to my bank account. So no, I didn't touch your serum. I don't even know where you're keeping it."

The conversation petered off then, with a few mumbled apologies from the Blu engineer. Fischer leaned against the wall, straining to hear.

Then, to his horror, the barrack door swung open.

Pain shot through Fischer's chest. He sprinted across the balcony, disappearing in the grate-floored room adjacent to the entrance to the spirals. Heart pounding against his ribs, he craned his head around the corner just enough to see Antoine leaving the barracks, irritably tugging at his tie.

"Imbéciles," Antoine muttered, stalking across the haystack room and toward the courtyard.

The barracks door swung shut and stayed that way. Throwing caution to the wind, Fischer scurried across the haystack room, following Antoine onto the catwalk over the courtyard, just in time to see the Frenchman drop onto the fort's ground level. Peering over the edge, Fischer watched as Antoine looked both ways, then activated his cloak. A slow, predatory smile spread across the redhead's face.

Hiding wouldn't help Antoine.

Because Fischer knew how to hunt spies.

He crept forward, ignoring the prickling pain crawling down his limbs, eyes peeled for the telltale signs of a spy – the shimmer in the air, the tiny dust spirals that seemed to come from nowhere.

There. The softest footstep, and a reflection of light that shouldn't have been there.

Acting so fast he almost surprised himself, Fischer sprung forward. He was rewarded with a snarl as he collided with something invisible, and without stopping to think Fischer wrapped his arm around the Frenchman's throat. His other hand dug his flare gun into the indentation between Antoine's shoulder blades.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Antoine hissed, shimmering into view like stained glass. "You're going to get us both killed, you idiot."

"Right, I'm sure you're _incredibly_ worried about my safety," Fischer replied, digging the flare gun in deeper. The flares wouldn't kill him – far from it, but it was the best Fischer could do without resorting to an axe or sledgehammer. The rules against team killing be damned – if Antoine was two-timing them, he would pay. "I heard you talking to them. You slimy... filthy..."

"Oh, don't flatter yourself." With an angry grunt, Antoine flung Fischer's arm off his neck. "You have no idea of the situation. Of what's going on."

Fischer fought the urge to wince. He'd been holding Antoine as hard as he could, but the Frenchman had pulled his arm away without any effort whatsoever. Damn serum. "I know well enough to know when you're stabbing us in the back! I always knew you were-"

Before Fischer could continue, Antoine clapped a hand over his mouth and locked the other around Fischer's midsection. Then, with all the effort of picking up a kitten, Antoine dragged the struggling redhead into the sewer entrance and down the steps. Near the bottom, Antoine dropped Fischer, allowing him to stumble down the last few steps.

"What the hell was that for?" Fischer fumbled for his gun. "You gonna kill me now, too? Finish the job?"

Antoine rolled his eyes. "Oh, would you _shut up_ for once in your life? Why would I go to the trouble of pulling my Blu counterpart off you, if I was only going to kill you myself later?"

"I don't know. Personal satisfaction? Or maybe you're just that kind of nasty."

"You really are an idiot." With one last nervous look toward the top of the stairs, Antoine beckoned for Fischer to follow him down the sewer tunnel.

Hesitantly, Fischer followed, his boots splashing in the ankle-high water. Whatever had taken root in the moat hadn't managed to spread to the Blu sewers at least – or maybe their opponents had just taken the time to clean the sewers every once in awhile.

Their every movement echoed as the two reached the bend. Slowing to cast another glance behind them, Antoine caught Fischer's eye and frowned.

"You planning on telling me what's going on here? Or should I just ping the comm system and let the others know that you're in cahoots with the Blus?"

Another eye roll. "As far as Blutarch Mann is concerned, I've been working for him since we reached the fort."

"I should've-!"

A glare silenced him. "Some things I have told Blutarch, yes, but not everything. And with other things I have deliberately... misled him. Along with his mercenaries."

"You're feeding the Blus junk intel?"

"In so many words, yes."

Fischer frowned, glad Antoine couldn't see his expression behind the gas mask. "Why?"

A pause, as if Antoine was deciding how much to divulge. "Conagher and the doctor have been discussing Helen's motives. Why she provided the doctor with a serum sample. And... if they are correct, Helen has been in contact with a third Mann heir. One who will end the fighting once and for all."

Fischer's eyes widened. Vaguely, a memory surfaced in his mind, of Conagher and Niklas's murky voices discussing a third Mann sibling, of Fischer fading in and out of coherence as the two discussed what that meant for the men at the fort.

"Why the hell would you get involved in that? What's your motive?"

Antoine snorted. "How easily you forget. I seem to recall someone bludgeoning me unconscious and forcing me along on this little venture. I was happy – _perfectly happy –_ with the life I'd created for myself out there. Unlike you all, who couldn't wait to get back to the bloodshed."

Fischer had the decency to look embarrassed, even if it was behind the mask. Tucking the flare gun back into its holster, he leaned against the wall and watched Antoine pace in front of him.

"I want to go home," Antoine continued, running a hand along his balaclava. "I want my life, my business, my butlers. At first I thought I missed the company, but-" he shot Fischer a dark look- "I was mistaken."

"So you're filling the Blu team's minds with junk... to buy time so Conagher and Niklas can sort out this third heir business. Get us out of here for good."

"_Oui._"The glare turned even darker. "But you may have just blown my cover. Ruined everything I was trying to accomplish."

Fischer had a feeling an apology wouldn't suffice. Especially when he already owed the Frenchman more than a few thanks.

"About you takin' care of the Blu spy yesterday..." the redhead began lamely, eyes locked on the ground.  
>"There was no ulterior motive then, either," Antoine snapped. "You dying permanently would, as Conagher would say, throw a wrench in our plans. As much as I hate to admit it, our team needs you just as much as any of the others. Especially if we're going to get out of here."<p>

"I wasn't asking for a reason," Fischer muttered, so softly the words were almost lost inside the mask. "I needed to thank you."

"Well don't. Like I told you then – it changes nothing between us. Nothing."

Fischer sighed and pushed himself off the wall, stalking back to the tunnel itself. The blood lust he'd felt before had fizzled, replaced with something weaker. Sadder. Less defined. But something else, a stubbornness situated deep in his midsection, refused to let him turn left, to the moat and, eventually, the Red team's sewers. Instead he turned back to the Blu team's sewer stairs.

Antoine watched him go, the Frenchman's scowl so deep it was visible through the balaclava.

"I'll leave you to it, then." Fischer's boots hit the water with a splash. "Have fun with your subterfuge."

"And where do you think you're going?"

"The same place I was going before you sidetracked me. To fry a Blu spy."

"Were you even listening to me?" Antoine trotted behind him, obviously furious at himself for caring enough to follow. "This goes far beyond vendettas, or revenge. If we plan to to help Helen put the third heir in power, we have to think past that."

Fischer gave a helpless shrug. "Not gonna stop me, Frenchie. Sorry."

A flash of silver streaked through the sewers, then froze as Antoine's knife settled against Fischer's throat. The redhead had just enough time to ponder the irony before the Frenchman spoke.

"You listen to me," he hissed. "I'm through with letting you and your misguided attempts at bravado get in the way of my plans. Now, you're either coming back with me to our side of the fort, or I'm sending you through the respawn. And as you may remember, that might not be the most brilliant of ideas."

Fischer tensed. This time yesterday, he would have wrenched Antoine's arm out of its socket and given him a series of second degree burns for his trouble. Possibly a concussion, courtesy of an axe handle.

But today, he was tired. So tired.

Finally, he settled for drooped shoulders and a slight nod. "Alright. Let's go."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> Two things, real quick.

The first - thanks to the amazing **Katrish92**, TLH is now translated into Russian! You can check it out at /readfic/325088.

Second - sounds like my "third heir" business is becoming canon, if the latest TF2 update is to be believed: /gray/. Let the ARG begin!

See you all in two weeks!


	35. Chapter 35

Conagher handed the vials to Niklas one by one and tried not to think about what he was doing. The doctor took them wordlessly, transferring them into a cooler that had previously held a mega baboon heart.

It had taken a laughably short amount of time to finish the serum. Hours, to Conagher's surprise. But maybe he should have expected the calculations to come easy, the research to be simple as coloring inside the lines. He was a genius, after all.

Conagher fought back an emotionless laugh. Instead, he scrubbed his hands against the sides of his coveralls and followed Niklas to the barracks.

The others waited for them, prompted by a communications call that, to anyone else, would have sounded cryptic and unneccesarily vague: "Get to the barracks. It's ready." They sat, knees on elbows and wearing varying expressions of uneasiness. The only ones who looked even remotely content were Doe – and Conagher had a feeling their Soldier didn't care what was going on, so long as he was killing people – and Antoine, who leaned against the far wall and watched them with a look not unlike a child about to pull the wings off a fly.

The vials rattled against each other as Niklas sat the cooler on the floor. The seven other mercenaries leaned forward, eyes widening at the toxic green fluid that seemed to give off a glow of its own, even in the barracks' heavy light.

"Here y'all go." Conagher crossed his arms.

Billy was the bravest. He pulled a vial out of the cooler, held it up to the light, and rotated it, frowning. "So this is what they shot Fischer full of?"

"Close as I can get to it, son."

Conagher shot a glance in Fischer's direction. The Texan hated to admit it, but he was curious as to how Fischer would react to the serum, to seeing the stuff that had nearly been his death sentence. But the redhead's face was impassive, and he stared at the wall without so much as an acknowledgement.

Carefully, Billy replaced the vial in the cooler. "So what now? We gotta get this... y'know, inside 'em, right? Can't exactly throw it at 'em and hope it'll stick."

"Zat is vat ve called you here for." Niklas deposited his lab coat on one of the benches and rolled up his sleeves. "Obviously some of you are better... suited for zis kind of veaponry, but ve have plans for all of you." His dark eyes flitted to Antoine, who responded with his own expressionless stare.

"So, wot yer sayin' is some'a us'll be stickin' the Blus, and the others won't." DeGroot propped his feet on a crate and tossed an empty hooch bottle from one hand to the other.

"Precisely."

"And wot'll the others be doin'?"

"They'll be distractions, mostly" Conagher replied, taking a step forward so the others could hear. Any other day he might have sugar coated it, made 'bait' sound fancier and more appealing. But not today. Today was all business. "They'll be the folks drawing the Blus out and getting them to the people with the needles, by any means necessary."

"And if they refuse?" Antoine's question was soft, but everyone turned to look at him. "What then?"

Conagher ignored the tightening in his chest. "Well, friend, that's where you come in."

Conagher pushed away the doubts and strode across the room, holding up a syringe scavenged from Niklas's supplies. He eyed Billy, Antoine and Lawrence, one by one. "From here on out, this is your bat, your machete, your switchblade. I don't care how you do it – you can hang upside down on the bridge and stab them in the feet, for all I care – but you have to inject them. As much as you can, before they get you. And you'll have to be fast about it, because I can damn well promise you that they'll be trying to do the exact thing to you."

Next, he nodded at DeGroot, Doe and Ivan. "You three will hopefully keep the Blu team from doing to us what we'll be doing to them. You're security detail, the guys watching our backs. Niklas will be doing his usual thing, making sure we all stay alive out there so we can get the job done." He took a deep breath. "Fischer and I will stay here in the fort. Make sure the Blus don't pull any more tricks while we're distracted outside."

Fischer nodded but said nothing, and Conagher breathed an inward sigh of relief. He'd expected the redhead to protest, and to be honest he hadn't looked forward to that argument. Not right then, at least.

"So what, we kill 'em, and then we go home?" Billy tapped his bat against one sneaker, over and over. "I never signed up for this kinda crap, y'know. If I wanted to whack people I could've stuck with Annie's pop."

"I don't know. I assume, if Helen's thrown her lot in with this third heir, then that's what'll happen. We win, we let her terminate our contracts, we go home. And none of us expected this, son." Shrugging, Conagher dropped onto the bench. "But I'll be perfectly honest with you – at this point we're fightin' for our lives, so you better start treatin' it like it's important."

The Bostonian didn't reply. Instead, he stared at his shoes and turned the bat over in his hands and gave a slight nod to show he understood.

"Any more questions? We'll have syringes loaded up for y'all tonight, so you can decide how you want to carry 'em around with you outside. I want this set in motion tomorrow morning. We've waffled long enough with this – it's time to finish it." Visions of lopsided bird houses and angry parents danced in Conagher's head, but he pushed them away. He didn't like the person he'd become, ever since he'd returned to Teufort. Didn't appreciate being stretched to the limit, being forced to compromise his values, re-evaluate everything he'd come to accept as good and proper when it came to the rules of the Mann brothers' manufactured warfare.

He wanted his one-bedroom apartment. His crummy job – if he could even go back to it, now. His routine, his hidden workshop in the work closet. Looking back, he couldn't believe he'd ever thought a kill or be killed existance was preferable.

Maybe, he thought as his eyes roamed the expressions of the mercenaries around him, it was the company he had missed. The guys who had been there, seen everything he'd seen, and saved his bacon more times than he could count. Fischer, prying away a sapper so the sentry would still stand, or Ivan doubled over, heaving with exhaustion, at the dispenser and giving Conagher a grateful look usually only seen on puppies.

Well, this time, maybe they'd do things differently, and not part ways like complete strangers. Surely he could consider these men friends by now. And didn't friends try to keep in touch?

Granted, that was assuming they all made it out alive.

Conagher really hoped they did.

The evening passed in snatches of strained conversation, like Doe and DeGroot arguing over a card game neither of them really paid attention to, or Niklas reading aloud from one of his German poetry books. No one addressed the looming thought of the next day – the reality that they would be fighting with hypodermic needles and a serum that would leave them as good as dead. No one wanted to go to bed, either. Conagher assumed the others' sleeplessness was for the same reason as his – the fact that his head was spinning with a kind of self-searching terror that he hadn't experienced before, not since a skunk-haired woman had approached him asking if he wanted a chance to participate in a risk-free war.

Finally, when the clock on the wall struck three a.m., they retreated to their bunks, but no one's breathing settled into the easy rhythm of sleep. Like Conagher, they stared at the ceiling, lost in thought until they finally drifted into a restless kind of half-nap that left them tossing and turning and mumbling into their pillows.

Before they knew it, it was dawn, and the siren sounded like it had every day, since they'd first set foot on that godforsaken patch of dirt and sun-bleached rock. Niklas distributed the plastic-capped syringes, a handful to Billy and Antoine and Lawrence, and the three men stowed them in any pocket space they could find.

Silently, they filed out of the barracks and turned left, huddling behind the tin sheet that hid a section of the balcony from the courtyard's view. It was still early enough to be cool, though heat still radiated from the metal and the wooden fort around them.

"I don't think this warrants sayin', but good luck, y'all," Conagher said, rubbing at the spot where the back of his head met his hard hat. "Take care out there, and watch each others' backs. Fischer and I will be here if you need either of us."

"Speaking of Fischer, vere is he?" Niklas scanned the faces around him. "Is he still inside ze barracks?"

"Prepare for battle, men!" Helen's voice hissed through the speakers. Then, quieter – and, Conagher suspected, only on the Red fort's side – she said, "Finish this fast. I want this over with."

The Texan cursed under his breath. "Y'all go on. Fischer's probably still bunked up. I'll get him out here."

No one answered. They didn't need to. Instead, the mercenaries looked at each other, their faces a study in anxiety and grim determination – except for DeGroot, who took a swig of his liquor and chuckled. Then, as a group, they approached the balcony lip and dropped.

Conagher didn't watch them go. Instead, he turned back toward the barracks. That blasted redhead. Conagher'd throttle him if he was still asleep.

But, when Conagher stormed into the barracks, he found Fischer's bed empty. A quick check of Fischer's locker showed his flamethrower tucked in its holster, and the sledgehammer he tended to use as a last resort was shoved against the back wall.

The detonating flare gun, though, was missing.

The reality of the situation took shape in the Texan's mind. He spun. Sprinted over to the cooler and, fingers flying, counted through the syringes left inside. Billy, Lawrence and Antoine had each gotten five, out of an initial thirty syringes. Eyes widening, Conagher let the last one slide back into place in the cooler. Eleven.

Four were missing.

Another curse.

"You moron."

(-)

The syringe trembled in Fischer's hand. He crouched at the Blu's straights entrance, listening to the Blu engineer and spy mutter and waiting for an opportunity to stick the needle between the Blu spy's shoulderblades. He'd been stuck their for half an hour, ever since he'd crept out of his bunk, grabbed a handful of serum-filled syringes, and snuck out of the Red fort.

As far as Fischer could tell, the two Blus were discussing the strategy for eradicating the Red team. From the few mumbled sentences, he knew the team planned on using the Blu spy to do most of their dirty work. The redhead desperately wished he could activate the communication system and pass that information along to his teammates, but he didn't dare risk it.

And besides, if his plan went the way it was supposed to, the Blu spy wouldn't be a threat once his conversation with the Blu engineer was over.

At first, he'd felt bad about sneaking off, especially with the sole purpose of revenge against the Blu spy. After all, Conagher had harped for hours about them being non-violent, and how replicating the serum was a last resort. In one particular speech he'd preached about making sure the Red team didn't forget who they'd become in their two years on the outside – normal people with lives and ambitions and jobs.

Well, screw that. Fischer had spent two years answering the questions of sad, desperate women who most likely lived alone with dozens of cats. Except Doe, but that nutcase didn't count.

The sound of feet shuffling against the catwalk brought Fischer back to attention. He pressed his back against the wall, wishing he'd been able to bring his flamethrower. He felt naked without it, and helpless, too – the detonator wouldn't be much help on any one of his opponents, and he doubted it would be any use at all against the Blu team's heavy or a well-placed sentry.

But hopefully it wouldn't come to that. Fischer turned the syringe over, carefully tucking it into the breast pocket of his coveralls. There was no doubting it – the Blu engineer and spy had finished their conversation, and one of them was walking toward the Blu team's hay room.

Slowly, so he wouldn't catch anyone's eye, Fischer poked his head around the wall, just far enough to see into the courtyard. Sure enough, he could see the Blu engineer's back, vanishing as the man turned into the hay room. There was the spy, too, sitting on the courtyard steps with his back to Fischer and lighting a cigarette.

A slow smile spread beneath Fischer's mask.

Bingo.

He crept past the wall, keeping low to the ground, a predator stalking his prey. Two steps, then three, and he had the syringe in his hands again and positioned it above the Blu spy's back.

The Blu spy twitched, then turned.

His eyes widened.

Then snapped shut as Fischer drove the needle into his back.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> A couple folks have messaged me asking about my third heir business, and if it alluded to what would happen with the MvM update and Gray Mann. For the record, I had no idea about Gray Mann when I first thought of introducing a third heir (I also didn't expect them to make spybots canon, but I think it's hilarious). To be honest, the latest update has me kind of stuck – I can go with my original plan and my own third heir, or I can try to incorperate Gray into the story as said third heir and find a way to make that work, depending on how the canon storyline works out. I feel like that spoils some of the mystery of it, but I've tried my best to keep this story fairly close to canon and I'd hate to stop now.

The best I can say is, we'll see what happens. I'm finishing this story come hell or high water, so don't think for a second me being conflicted about where to go means the updates will slow down, or stop entirely. It just means a lot of waffling over what to do. I'd appreciate any input from you guys on the matter.

Kudos to **Faux Promises**'s little brother, who noticed I'd accidentally called Fischer a "redneck" instead of a "redhead" in the last chapter. My bad. It's fixed now.

One more thing. I haven't done this in awhile, but I want to extend a huge, HUGE HUGE HUGE thank you to all the people who have favorited, reviewed or added this story to your alerts. I really can't describe how awesome it is, to know so many people are enjoying the story, and invested to a point where I've had lengthy discussions with several of you about it. Thanks to you awesome folks for the encouragement, the constructive criticism and the awesome conversations that keep me going.

See you all in two weeks.


	36. Chapter 36

Niklas slid sideways, grabbing for the medi-gun before it could fall into the moat below. One knee hit the ground, scraping across the ground, but he was up in an instant, the pain forgotten.

All that mattered right then was getting to Billy, whose screams echoed through the fort so loudly that he didn't even need to use the team's communication system. So Niklas scrambled forward, medi-gun bouncing against one hip and stomach churning. Hoping the Blu team wouldn't get to the Bostonian before he could.

The doctor found Billy just inside the Red team's sewer entrance, shivering and eyes wide. His right hand was clamped around his left arm so tightly the knuckles shone white.

"Vat is it?" Niklas's heart pounded. Annoyance twinged at him – here he'd run halfway across Teufort, abandoning Ivan and Lawrence, and Billy was safe on their side.

"They got me, Doc." Billy's voice shook, ringing an octave higher than normal. "That- their Pyro came outta nowhere, and he had a needle in his hand. He scratched me. I dunno if it went in, but... but I wanted t'make sure."

Slowly, with all the wincing and whimpering of pulling a bandage off a wound, Billy removed his hand from his arm. Niklas leaned in, squinting in the darkness and ears tuned for any noise that might come from the sewers below. Though he didn't speak, his mind raced.

They'd been right. The Blu team was coming for them, too.

The scratch was long, but not deep, a white line stretching from just below Billy's shoulder to his elbow. Niklas breathed a relieved sigh. "You're fine, Herr Walsch. It did not break ze skin."

Niklas thought the Bostonian would collapse in a puddle in front of him. Billy swayed on his feet and stuck an arm out to keep from falling over. "Thanks, Doc. It had me worried."

"Be careful, _ja_?" Niklas shouldered the medi-gun and turned back to the fort's entrance. "At zis point, ve need caution more zan anysing else."

Billy nodded, rubbed at the scratch, and darted back toward the sewers, leaving Niklas to trot toward the Red fort's main entrance. The communication system shrieked in his ear, one notification after another from his coworkers, who were suddenly – and understandably – much less confident than usual. The doctor sighed, jostling the medi-gun so it was gripped in both hands. As he passed through the wood-framed door, he chanced a glance down at his watch. Then sighed again, but louder, and more drawn out.

They'd only been fighting for fifteen minutes.

(-)

The Blu spy twisted beneath Fischer's hands, his suit jacket rumpling where the syringe dug into his back. Fischer held on, breath hurried beneath the gas mask. Fog clouded the lenses.

With one last, frantic jerk, the Blu spy pulled free, and the needle dropped to the dirt floor, rolling into a corner. He scrambled across the dirt, one hand flailing to press at the injection site and the other clawing at the ground.

"You," he gasped. The word practically dripped venom.

Fischer smiled, even though the Blu Spy couldn't see. "Play with fire, and you get burned."

Snarling, the Blu Spy charged up the steps. Fischer chased after him, his movements slowed by the coveralls and the Detonator in his hands.

But soon, Fischer thought with a smirk, the spy would slow down, too.

Conagher had done his job well. Halfway across the hay room, the spy dropped onto his side, an inhuman scream tearing from his lungs as he reached both hands over to claw at the injection site. By the time Fischer reached him, he writhed along the floor, back arching and limbs twitching uncontrollably.

Another smirk. "It doesn't feel good, does it? And, oh, guess what." The redhead leaned close. "All your buddies are outside fighting. There's no one to help you. You're mine."

"Not quite."

Fischer spun, raising the detonator and firing in the face of the Blu Engineer, who rounded the corner with his pistol drawn. It exploded across the engineer's face, sending the man screaming into the barracks, hands over his eyes and skin ablaze. Fischer wanted to laugh, throw his head back and crow victory over the spy and the engineer, and get back to enacting his revenge.

Then a memory flitted through his head. Of Niklas, one leg balanced on the other as he sat on the barracks bench and talked about cloaked sentries.

The redhead jerked his head from side to side, ears tuned for the telltale beeping that Niklas said was the only sign the sentry had been near. At his feet, the Blu Spy moaned, his suit shifting as his muscles clenched and relaxed in rapid succession.

Surely, Fischer reasoned, he'd have found evidence of the sentry, if it was somewhere in the hay room or the courtyard. He'd have heard it – or worse, been shot by it.

He could hear the Blu Engineer in the blu barracks. Fischer assumed the man was blindly tearing through the first aid locker, hunting for something to heal the burns on his face. Slow satisfaction crept through him. How long had it been since he'd seen, heard, smelled burning flesh?

But the locker was stocked with medications that could do anything, and in record time. Fischer knew he was racing against the clock – and he had a feeling that this time the Blu Engineer would come out shooting. He looked down at the Blu spy, who lay prone against the wooden floor, face obscured by the balaclava. As much as he wanted to burn the spy alive – working from the bottom up – Fischer had to admit that he was out of time.

The spy moaned, and an idea flashed into the redhead's mind.

Well. Conagher _had_ said they preferred them alive.

Fischer grabbed the spy by the back of the collar, hauling him roughly to his knees. The spy hung limp, head down, but breathing as Conagher's poison worked its magic on his system.

Fischer's rubber boots ground against the floor as he dragged the spy toward the grated room. Once they reached the room, Fischer shoved the Blu Spy through the hole in the grate, allowing the man to topple into a heap on the first floor. From there, they headed to the sewers.

He might have decided not to kill the spy just, but Fischer still had plans. And right then he wasn't sure whether those plans included leaving the spy alive.

(-)

To Lawrence's dismay, the Blu Sniper had seen him coming.

"Buggar!" He hissed, leaping to the side of the bridge just as the telltale blue dot centered itself on his torso. As far as he knew, he'd respawn without issues if something did happen, but he didn't exactly feel like taking any chances.

And what the hell were Niklas and Conagher thinking, sending him into close combat? That kind of nonsense was for other classes, the ones that didn't mind the occasional gaping wound or third degree burn.

But he hadn't argued because he'd had a feeling Niklas and Conagher had given him that particular assignment for a reason – to take out the Blu Sniper.

Keeping his eyes peeled for any more blue dots, Lawrence crept across the bridge with measured steps. As far as he knew – as far as he _hoped –_ his teammates were keeping the other, more stabby members of the Blu team in check. Letting him focus on the Sniper. The one member of the team that could kill from five hundred yards away.

Thinking about it, it made sense. The two Snipers spent a lot of time staring at each other through scopes, reading each others' snarls and rude gestures and coming to a kind of vicious camraderie. Lawrence was comfortable thinking he understood the way the Sniper's mind worked, and he had a feeling the rest of his team knew that. Hence the syringe and the look Conagher had given him that made it clear. One target. Take him out, and it was an enormous blow to the Blus.

Unfortunately, Lawrence also had a feeling – and his feelings tended to be correct – that the Blu Sniper knew enough about him to be a nuisance. Or, worse, to be dangerous.

Just has he reached the end of the bridge, an explosion sent Lawrence flying. He hit the ground hard, skidding several inches across the tramped-down dirt and gravel in front of the Blu fort. But before he could even register the pain, Lawrence was up, scurrying toward the relative safety of the moat like a terrified rabbit.

A hand roughly grabbed the back of his shirt, yanking him backward. The sub-machine gun skittered toward the bridge.

Lawrence's blood froze in his veins.

The SMG hit the thin wooden barrier where the bridge began, changed course, and kept going.

Right into the moat.

The person holding Lawrence's shirt chuckled. Lawrence's boots scrabbled along the ground, but his captor held him just high enough to keep him from getting any traction.

"Look what we have here." The gritty voice of the Blu Soldier. "All by his lonesome, without anyone watching his back."

Lawrence froze, just in time for the Blu Soldier to shake him back and forth. "Where's the rest of yer team? Hidin' out, like you should'a been? Got a little present for all of 'em. You too."

Without stopping to think, Lawrence kicked backwards and was rewarded with a grunt as the heel of one boot connected with the Blu Soldier's shin.

"Nice try, but yer nothin' without yer fancy guns, are ya? No fightin' like a real man for you."

If he'd been facing the Blu Soldier, Lawrence would've spit in his face. "Go to hell."

"Oh, we're _in_ hell, sonny. 'Til you Red scum are wiped off the face of the earth."

Something sharp prodded Lawrence in his jeans pocket. A fresh wave of horror crawled down him as he realized the syringe had worked its way free and was dangerously close to falling to the ground.

He had one shot. The one-in-a-million kind that would mean a broken neck – possibly the kind of broken that _stayed_ broken - if he screwed it up.

Luckily, those were the kind of shots Lawrence was best at.

Twisting, Lawrence kicked again, aiming a little higher this time. Though he didn't manage to bury his boot in the Blu Soldier's crotch like he'd hoped, he did succeed in making the man flinch back, just enough to loosen his grip. With a snarl, Lawrence shoved forward, got just enough traction to dig his boots into the ground, grabbed the syringe from his pocket, and turned.

The needle hit the Blu Soldier in the side. The soldier reacted quickly, yanking away and flinging the syringe to the ground like it was a poisonous snake. But even as the soldier flung himself on Lawrence, bringing both of them to the ground, he saw it.

The syringe was half empty.

More than enough to do the job.

He didn't have time to feel satisfaction. All he felt was a flurry of rock-hard fists, pounding away at his face, his head, his upper body.

"You god-"

The Soldier didn't finish. Instead, he went deathly quiet, and in a heartbeat pulled a syringe of his own. Through swollen, blood-filled eyes Lawrence could tell it was almost identical to the ones Conagher had given them.

When the Blu Soldier spoke, his voice was raw. "Eye for an eye, eh sonny?"

The syringe dug into Lawrence's arm, and an instant later the Blu Soldier fell to the ground, twitching and moaning.

Lawrence blinked back blood and sweat and finally closed his eyes to stop the stinging. He didn't know whether to brace himself for the pain or relax and hope whoever found him made it quick.

Something warm and rough surrounded Lawrence just as the first wave of pain tore through him. He barely noticed the sensation of being picked up and dragged away, and moments later, being dropped and surrounded by darkness.

Right then, there was only the burning, and the tremors, and the bile in the back of his throat, and the realization that anything was better than the white-hot pain trailing up and down his body like spiderwebs.

Even death.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: <strong>Okay, apology time.

At no point did I ever anticipate putting this story on hiatus. Six weeks or so ago I was chugging along on a chapter, and then some pretty crazy stuff happened. That includes some awful issues with work, the worst of which resulted in me completely burned out. Which the led to a hiatus, because I was disgusted with everything, writing included. Once I finally felt normal again, I had to churn out a bunch of content for work, for my novel and for another anthology with a fast-approaching deadline. I've been busy. Stupid busy. Bang-your-head-against-the-wall busy.

Now. That said. I'm sorry if any of this chapter sounds weird. It's been awhile since I've written the mercs, so I can't promise I got their voices right. Hopefully as I get back into the groove that'll get back to where it's supposed to be.

For future reference (and it's not like I expect this to happen again, but it's just a heads up), if another hiatus happens, or if I miss an update, I'll mention it on Tumblr. I can't post a chapter here saying that the chapter will be late, but I can (and will, and do) whine to no end about it on Tumblr. For the record, I'm not asking people to follow me – just, if an update's mega-late and you get curious, you might look there to see why. .com.

We should be back on track update-wise. We're getting close to the end, in case you can't tell, and I'm gonna do my best to keep it as close to what I'd originally planned as possible.

Thanks to all the people who followed, faved and reviewed this story during the down time. And another thanks to everyone who PMed me or messaged me on Tumblr asking if everything was alright.

See you all in two weeks. I promise.


	37. Chapter 37

They called a ceasefire, right before noon.

It was the result of hurried conversations among the Reds still outside the fort. They were scuffed and burned and tired, and the adrenaline that had kept them going through the first couple hours had fizzled out, leaving them exhausted.

And, whether they wanted to admit it or not, the Blu team was giving them a run for their money.

Niklas was the first to suggest it. He shot a look at Ivan, who heaved like a winded bull as he leaned against the wood just inside the Red team's fort.

"This hard work, doctor," Ivan wheezed. "Or Ivan have too many sandviches."

The doctor pursed his lips. His arms ached, and a stray grenade had left the left side of his chest and stomach streaked with an ugly red burn he hadn't had time to heal. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

As if on cue, Doe appeared around the corner, too busy reloading the rocket launcher to look up. Gunpowder streaked across his chin and cheeks, along with something that, to Niklas, closely resembled dried blood.

"Doc," Doe said by way of greeting, even though he didn't look up. "Y'might get in there and take a look at Mundy. Damn Blus tore him up pretty good."

Niklas frowned. "Ze Blu team got to Herr Mundy?"

"Yep. About ten minutes ago. That ape they call a soldier had him pinned. Prolly would've killed him, if Lawrence hadn't stuck him too."

Niklas raised his eyebrows. He was more than a little annoyed that Lawrence was now essentially useless, but the doctor was pleasantly surprised – maybe even bordering on amazed – to find out the Australian had managed to take the Blu Soldier out of the fight. Their odds still weren't great, but they were definitely better.

"Gotta say, I didn't think Mundy had it in him." Doe rolled the rocket back onto one shoulder and headed back to the door. "I mean, I'm not too surprised about Fischer bringin' that spy in – that man's nuttier'n a bag of squirrels – but the sniper... y'know. Avoids conflict'n all that."

If he hadn't been paying attention before, what Doe said snapped Niklas back to reality. "Vat did you say, herr Doe?"

Stopping mid-step, Doe turned around. Bits of dust fluttered around him in the high sunlight. "Huh?"

"About Herr Fischer. And a spy?"

"Oh." Doe shrugged. "Tex's havin' a fit about it upstairs. Figured you knew. Somethin' about the way Fischer's treatin' our captives."

Niklas let out a sigh that blew dust off the walls. Beside him, Ivan watched the conversation intently, his eyes wide and curious.

"Vere are ze ozzers, Herr Doe?"

"Y'mean the rest of the Reds? Er- the Runner's upstairs pokin' the spy with a stick, and DeGroot's snuck off to the spirals fer liquid confidence, if y'know what I mean." Using his fingers, Doe counted off the other members of the team. "Tex is up there tryin' to keep Fischer from turnin' the spy into French toast, Mundy's in the medic bay."

"And our spy?"

Conagher shrugged. "Who knows? Figure he's off lurkin' around. What he does best, y'know?"

Shouldering the medi-gun, Niklas peered across the moat to the Blu fort. The balcony and entryways were empty, but he had a feeling someone over there was watching him. "Herr Doe, if you vould attempt to get in touch vis our spy over ze communication system. I believe..." He sighed again. "I believe a regrouping is in order."

(-)

If Conagher had hair long enough to grab, he'd have been pulling it out.

He stood in front of the barracks, arms crossed and doing his best to stare down a man hidden behind gas mask lenses.

"For the last time, no," he snarled. "I've got Walsch in there watchin' em. No need for you to go in there."

"I dragged one of them in!" Snarling, Fischer yanked the gas mask off and threw it to the ground. His skin was pale and coated in a thin sheen of sweat. "I sure as hell think that means I'm allowed in there."

"No, you're not."

"And what about Lawrence? What if one of those- those-" Fischer struggled for a word, but came up empty-handed, instead settling for spitting on the wooden floor. "What if they get their hands on Lawrence?"

"Walsch is keepin' an eye on that, too." Conagher fought to keep his voice even. "'sides, those two're trussed up like Thanksgiving turkeys. They ain't goin' nowhere."

Fischer took several steps forward, until he and the Texan were inches apart. This close, Conagher could smell the serum, sharp and throat-tightening. It must have been leaking out of the redhead's pores as it made its way through his system.

"Just like your plan with the Blu Scout?" Fischer's eyes narrowed. "That worked out wonderfully, if I recall."

Conagher clenched and unclenched his fists. He refused to throw a punch at Fischer. Refused. If they turned on each other, they were as good as dead.

But Fischer was making Conagher's resolve very, very difficult to maintain.

"That's none of your concern." Conagher's voice was soft. Dangerous. "And unless you want to be tied up in there with them, I suggest you turn yourself around and get back to the catwalk. I reckon you need to at least pretend you care about what happens to the rest of your team."

"What else do you want from me?" Fischer swung his arms up so fast they almost hit Conagher's chest, and his voice rose to a shout. "I went in – alone – and brought one of them back for you. Who else on this team cared enough to go in alone?"

"Don't pretend this is about us, Fischer. You and I both know that's not true. And your hostage won't do us any good if his tongue's burned out."

Fischer's eyes went hard, and Conagher braced himself for a punch. If the redhead hit him, by God, he'd beat him senseless, respawn or no.

But it never came.

Instead, Fischer jabbed a soot-covered finger in Conagher's face.

"This isn't over," he hissed, before turning and stalking toward the balcony. Halfway across the room, he paused to pick up the gas mask. He stared at it for a moment, knuckles white, then, with a scoff, kept walking.

The moment Fischer disappeared around the corner, Conagher slumped. Removing his hard hat, he dropped it to the floor and ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. He wanted to kick it across the room, or throw the wrench at his feet against the sentry in the corner until it exploded. Something, anything to get rid of the pent-up rage bubbling inside him.

And Fischer, in true Pyro fashion, was the best at fanning those flames until they grew from a flicker into a full-blown inferno.

"Is everysing alright, Herr Conagher?"

Niklas, closely followed by Ivan and Doe, appeared at the top of the courtyard stairs. Conagher forced a smile, even though he felt more like locking himself in the barracks for an hour and punching the walls.

"Just peachy, doc. How's it goin' out there?"

"Nosing new to report. I felt it vas time for a break, and Ivan and Herr Doe agreed vis me." Niklas glanced over Conagher's shoulder, peering curiously at the closed barracks door. "It seems to me zat you are more informed of ze goings-on zan I am."

Conagher shrugged. He felt the briefest stab of guilt for letting Fischer storm out onto the battlements when there was no one out there to back him up. But it was easily swallowed by the memory of their conversation. "Just in the right place for that kinda thing, I reckon."

"_Ja_." Another peek toward the barracks. "Might I see our captives? And I vould like to attend to Herr Mundy, as vell."

"Oh. Of course." Conagher stepped sideways, allowing Niklas to come closer.

The barracks door slid open, revealing a misshapen lump in each of the two far corners, and a disgruntled-looking Billy situated between the two of them.

"'bout time someone came in to take over," the Bostonian snapped, jumping to his feet. "I ain't no babysitter."

The lump on the left – as Niklas approached, he recognized it as the Blu Soldier, tipped sideways and tied at the hands and feet – made a noise that was somewhere between a grunt and a wail. Billy shot the Blu Soldier an irritable look.

"He kept tryin' to talk to me. Crap like, 'I'll strangle you in your sleep,' and 'Fight me like a real man. Finally had to shut him up."

The men took a closer look, then winced. A filthy gym sock, the kind that the men usually burned instead of washing, was shoved in the Blu Soldier's mouth. If the look on the Blu Soldier's face was any indication, the sock tasted about as well as it smelled.

In the other corner was the Blu Spy, trussed up much the same, but silent and glowering.

"Mundy's further back," Conagher said, jerking his head toward the barracks.

Nodding, Niklas tore his eyes away from the Blu Soldier and headed back, the medi-gun still under one arm.

The barracks were dark and silent, save for the soft shifting and moaning that came from a bed near the far wall. In the low light, Niklas could see Lawrence curled up on his bunk, arms and legs twitching like spider limbs.

"Herr Mundy."

A low sigh was all Niklas got in reply.

"I vill see vat I can do," Niklas said, resting the medi-gun on the bed. "If Fischer vas any indication, I can't completely nullify ze effects, but I can take some of ze bite avay. At least ve know it von't kill you."

"Sure could'a fooled me." Lawrence's voice was rough, like he'd been screaming or sobbing, or both. Slowly, he turned so he was facing the doctor. "Alright, doc. Do your worst."

(-)

Fischer aimed his boot at a clump of dirt that had somehow found its way onto the balcony. It spun across the wood, colliding with a wall and exploding into pieces. Frowning, Fischer crushed the few fingernail-sized clumps that remained into dust.

It was becoming increasingly apparent to him that, no matter what he did, it would never be enough.

He'd gone behind enemy lines, crawled right up the Blu team's freaking spine and taken out what was probably the biggest asset to their intelligence stream. And doing it when one misstep could have landed him in a permanent dirt nap.

And now they – or Conagher, to be specific – were saying he couldn't be trusted?

Hell, Fischer would be the first to admit he'd gone after the Blu Spy for personal reasons. But if he'd _only_ done it for personal reasons, the Blu Spy would've been floating, face down, in the moat. Not alive, tied up, and locked in the barracks.

But no. Untrustworthy.

Across the bridge, the Blu fort was silent. Fischer stared at it, still crushing dirt clumps beneath his boots and grinding them into powder. Had he not proven himself to them, over and over again? Had he not thrown himself in front of them for deflections, or extinguished them when they were seconds from death?

Voices rose from around the corner. Curiosity tugged at Fischer, but he ignored it, setting his face into a deep scowl and trudging over to the other side of the balcony so he could sit next to the door of the smaller, less-used respawn room. He was quickly approaching the conclusion that he could float down in the middle of the courtyard, raining ice cream and rainbows and embodying peace itself, and they'd still think he was a monster.

He _wasn't_ a monster. He was the person who did what no one else wanted to do. He cleaned up after them, and they resented him for it.

Damn it.

Even though he hated himself for it, Fischer stalked back over to the other end of the balcony so he could listen in on what the others were saying. Their voices were muffled – they must have been inside the barracks, he reasoned – and judging by Conagher's tone, he was still riled up from their disagreement.

If he'd just _listened_ to Fischer. Actually paid attention to what Fischer had to say. Budged a little.

The voices grew faint, like the men were moving farther into the barracks. Fischer swore beneath his breath, then, arms crossed and face set in a firm scowl, he stomped back into the hay room.

His curiosity would be the death of him.

**Author's note: **For some strange reason, writing Fischer stewing is really fun to do. Just like writing the argument between him and Conagher.

Something interesting should happen in the next chapter.

See you all in two weeks.


	38. Chapter 38

The Blu Spy refused to cooperate.

It didn't matter how many times Conagher tried to reason with him, or how often the Texan threatened to bring Fischer in for 'firmer interrogation.' The man sat rigid, his cowl contorted behind the balaclava, and glared straight through Conagher any time he tried to talk.

Conagher would never admit it, but he was starting to think maybe Fischer was on to something.

Temper rising, Conagher kicked at the leg of the chair the Blu Spy was tied to. It connected with a thud, rattling both the chair and the man sitting on it.

"How long has the Blu team been sittin' on the serum? Did y'all know Helen was gonna bring us back?"

Nothing.

Slowly, Conagher's hands curled into fists. "What do y'all plan to do once we're all outta the picture?"

Silence.

"Can'tcha tell I'm tryin' to be the good guy here, can you?" Conagher made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "Siccin' Fischer on you... I don't want t'do that, but this whole situation's got me forced into a corner."

No reply. The Blu Spy's eyes were fixed firmly on the other end of the room.

"Is that what y'want, then?" Conagher wanted to kick the chair again, but harder this time, so it toppled onto the floor and sent the Blu . "You know what'll happen to you. You know we're playin' for keeps now."

Finally, the Blu Spy's bright green eyes met Conagher's.

"Death is the greatest mercy any of us on this _trou d'enfer _can hope for."

Stepping back, Conagher fell silent. The way the Blu Spy looked at him, his eyes round as saucers and expression serious as the grave, was unnerving. And what he said...

With a sigh, Conagher turned, hoping he looked more sure than he felt. He couldn't guarantee the Spy's – or the Blu Soldier they'd captured, for that matter – safety. He'd tried his hardest to keep the men on the straight and narrow, and for the most part they'd complied. But with Fischer growing more insistant every day, Conagher had a feeling his ability to be the team's voice of reason became more and more precarious with every passing minute.

The Texan could almost feel the Blu Spy's eyes boring into him. Biting back a sigh, he left the room, heading toward the barracks where Lawrence had remained since his encounter with the Blu Soldier.

Niklas met him on the way out. The doctor's eyebrows raised when he saw Conagher.

"Is everysing alright, Herr Conagher?"

"Yeah." Conagher ran a hand over the back of his neck. "Just- just tryin' to get answers, is all."

The wooden barracks door creaked shut behind Niklas. Glancing back at it, Niklas squared his shoulders and leaned against the wall. "I am beginning to sink ze only vay ve are going to get answers is to vin."

Another chink in Conagher's tenuous armor. He pushed past Niklas, ignoring the doctor's curious frown, and headed into the barracks, pulling the door closed behind him. Inside, Lawrence sat on his bunk, knees tucked to his chin. The Australian was pale in the low light, and the cheap mattress had leaked bits of fluff all over the floor.

"How y'feelin'? Better?"

Lawrence looked up. His eyes were dark and red-rimmed, but they were clearer than they'd been before, in the hours following the injection. "Like I been through hell and back, mate. Wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy." He gave a rattling cough that echoed through the room. "Well, maybe my worst one. But I'm better, I think. That gun'a Doc's can work wonders. Didn't completely patch me up, but- but it took the bite off."

Briefly, Conagher considered patting Lawrence's shoulder, but one look at the man's face was all it took for him to reconsider. "Sorry to hear it, but glad you're better."

"Yeah, me too. Thought I was a goner for a bit there." Grimacing, Lawrence straightened on the bunk and began to pick at a loose thread sticking up near the edge. "So now what? We're seven on seven?"

"Somethin' like that." Far as Conagher was concerned, the Australian needed to focus less on their objective and more on not feeling like he'd been hit by a bus. Then backed over, and hit again. But the frown Lawrence directed at the Texan told him Lawrence was less concerned about himself and more interested in fixing their current situation.

Finally, Conagher took a deep breath and dropped onto the bunk across from the one that belonged to Lawrence. "The Blu Spy, the one Fischer stuck, he got me to thinkin'."

"What about?"

"Well, somethin' he said. Like, he hates bein' here, wants to get out just like we do."

Lawrence raised his eyebrows. "Y'think we might could work something out-"

"No." Conagher shook his head. "This late in the game, I reckon we can't go tryin' to forge alliances and all that. Not with two of our men down."

Then he thought of the fire in Fischer's eyes and the way the redhead had gone, alone, into enemy territory to settle a vendetta, "Or, well, one down, temporarily. Guess we'll have the advantage once you're feelin' up to snuff again. Since we got two of 'em trussed up outside."

The mattress shifted below Lawrence, but he didn't reply. Instead, he stared at the loose thread like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

The last thing Lawrence wanted just then was to talk about the Blu Soldier, tied up less than a dozen feet past the barracks door. He'd never admit it to Conagher, but the attack had left the Australian felt like something had rattled loose inside him. He dreaded the thought of walking outside the barracks, of having to walk by the man who had hurt him so badly he absolutely, positively _knew_ he was going to die.

"How's ol' Bluehat doin', anyway?" Lawrence's voice was too light, but if Conagher noticed he didn't show it.

The Texan leaned back so his shoulders were against the wall. The bunks, while they were comfortable enough when the men fell into bed bone-tired, weren't terribly wide, and Conagher's feet were still firmly planted on the floor. "He's alright, I reckon. Runner stuffed a sock in his mouth to shut him up, but that won't do any lastin' damage. I ain't tried talkin' to him yet. Need to, though." Conagher shrugged. "Anything that might could help me figure out what we need to do next."

"You're tellin' me you don't know?" For the first time, Conagher saw amusement in Lawrence's eyes. "We've got the upper hand right now. I might be outta commission, but let's be honest here, mate – I'm nothin' compared to a soldier or a spy. Long-range work, and with everyone turtling behind the walls ninety percent of the time, there's not much I'm good for."

Conagher didn't want to see people dead. He didn't want that on his conscience. And who was to say whether or not another go at rounding up their Blu counterparts would result in someone dying.

Much more of this, he thought, and he'd wind up with an ulcer.

A creak, and Niklas appeared in the doorway.

"Herr Conagher, you might vant to come look at zis."

The twisting in his gut told Conather Niklas was wrong, but he stood anyway. With one last nod at Lawrence, the Texan made his way back through the barracks and the holding room where they kept the Blu Spy and Soldier. Niklas stayed at his side, his face giving nothing away.

Billy sat just outside the barracks, baseball bat in his hands and still eyeing the Blu Soldier and Spy like he wanted to treat them like squishy pinatas.

"Herr Walsch, if you vould keep an eye one zese two?"

"Sure, doc."

"_Danke_."

The quiet resumed. As they reached the end of the holding room, Conagher couldn't stand the silence any longer. "What's goin' on?"

"Perhaps it is best if you see for yourself."

Sighing, Conagher pushed through the door and walked into the hayroom. The doctor nodded toward the balcony.

"Out zere."

Dust and bits of hay swirled around Conagher as he passed, catching rays of sunshine and glittering like stars. The boards creaked beneath the Texan's feet when he rounded the corner, blinking at the sudden, stark sunlight after being in the darkened barracks for so long. Fischer, Doe, DeGroot and Ivan all stood along the wooden lip, staring down at something with varying expressions of disgust and fury.

But once his eyes adjusted, Conagher wished he was back in the dark.

The Blu team – or the seven of them the Reds hadn't captured – stood along the covered bridge, barely visible but obviously wanting to stay somewhere that a stray arrow or bullet or rocket couldn't reach.

It wasn't that, though, that made Conagher's stomach knot and his heart wrench so hard he swore it was about to crawl out of his chest.

Antoine knelt at the Blu team's feet, facing the Red fort and his snarl visible even from the balcony. Smiling, the Blu Engineer held a knife – it took Conagher a moment to realize it was Antoine's own butterfly knife – against the Frenchman's throat.

"Y'all come on out now, you hear?" The Blu Engineer's Southern drawl was even more pronounced than his red counterpart's, and it made Conagher wince to hear it. "I'd hate for this'n to grow himself a new smile."

"Now, wot'd we go an' do somethin' like that for?" DeGroot's good eye was narrowed, the other hidden behind its patch. The Scotsman's gaze flicked to Conagher as he approached, then back at the assembled Blus. "Seems t'me we're all snug'n safe up here."

"Y'all stay up there, then this'n dies." The Blu Engineer pressed the knife against Antoine's throat. Conagher didn't need to squint to see it bloom red. Antoine hissed, his expression contorting beneath the balaclava, but he said nothing.

"What do you want?" Conagher asked, even though he already knew the answer. He patted DeGroot shoulder and sent the man a silent thank-you for stalling the Blu team until he'd arrived.

"Now that's a stupid question if I ever did hear one." But the Blu Engineer let up on the knife, allowing Antoine to take a gasping, frenzied breath. "Y'disappoint me. I ain't never pegged you fer a simpleton, Tex. We want our men. You give us that, we give you yer Spy back, safe and sound. And afore y'think we're bluffin', know this'n's dirt nap'll be permanent."

Antoine locked eyes with Conagher. The two men eyed each other, trying to communicate without words. Conagher saw anger, stubbornness, a despair that told him Antoine believed his teammates would give him up without a second thought. And that hurt, to Conagher's surprise. After everything he'd done to try and keep the team together, they still spiraled out of control, ready to shatter at the slightest problem.

They'd been a team once. They'd laughed and fought and died together, and they'd lessened the horrors of war by relying on each other.

But no matter how much he'd tried, this time around wasn't, and would never be the same.

Conagher glanced at Niklas, who gave a slow, miniscule nod, and Doe, whose fingers twitched for the rocket launcher resting against his leg. If Lawrence weren't out of commission, they might've been able to set him on the roof, see if he could get a clean shot at any of the Blus. Maybe take one or two of them down, even if it meant Antoine's death.

"Let 'em in," Conagher said. Then, raising his voice, "Come in and get your men. We won't attack, so long as you don't do the same, and so long as our Spy ain't hurt."

A smug smile spread across the Blu Engineer's face.

"Now I reckon that is just swell."

Antoine tried to shake his head, to warn his teammates that they'd made the wrong decision, but a hand clamped against his mouth and the Blu Demoman dragged him to his feet with a chuckle. He tried to struggle, but the arm around his throat went tight, until the world around him swam.

The Blu Engineer spoke, more softly this time.

"As soon as we're inside, kill them all."

**Author's note: **Sorry for the late update and the short chapter. It's been a busy couple of weeks.

See you all in two weeks.


	39. Chapter 39

The Red team – minus Fischer, Billy and Antoine – lined up along the courtyard catwalk, arms crossed and faces painted with varying degrees of fury as they waited to be met by the Blus.

Conagher stood on the far end, closest to the entrance to the straights. It took all the willpower he possessed to keep from collapsing in a heap on the boards. He'd gone in thinking he could keep his teammates safe, and he'd failed. Beside him, Lawrence gave him a reassuring nod.

"Don't blame yerrself, mate." The Australian spoke softly. "I'm the one what got us back in this mess."

Conagher didn't reply. Instead, he watched the breeze kick up miniature cyclones along the ground, spiraling and swirling until they passed through the chain-link fence and into the desert beyond. They were mesmerizing, in a way – that or his brain was latching on to any possible distraction, anything that would keep him from thinking about the epic failure he'd just coordinated.

A shuffling noise echoed from the corridor below them. The Blu team came in a huddle, their eyes locked on the Reds and narrowed suspiciously. Antoine was clustered in the middle of them, a dark-suited lump hidden in a sea of shades of blue.

"Alright, we let y'all in," Conagher said. His voice was a growl that, to his embarrassment, sounded just as distraught as he felt. "Give 'im up and we'll bring your two out."

The Blu Engineer's eyes narrowed further. "Uh uh. Ain't havin' none of that. Y'all get our Soldier and Spy out here, then we'll talk. Where's yer runner?"

"Inside, with the hostages."

"That wasn't part of the deal." A meaty hand shot out and wrapped itself around Antoine's throat. The Frenchman gave a gasp, then a gurgle as the Blu Heavy hoisted him off his feet. "Y'all know good as I do that if my buddy here pops yer guy's head off, he ain't comin' back."

Doe shifted, like he planned to move forward, but Niklas's arm shot out, holding him back. "_Nein_."

Sensing another defeat, Conagher glanced down the line of his teammates and gave DeGroot a curt nod. "Go get 'em outta the barracks and bring 'em here. Bring Walsch with you, too."

"Aye."

Slowly, the Blu Heavy let Antoine's toes touch the ground. He scrambled madly, face reddening as he fought to breathe.

DeGroot disappeared in the hay room, and Conagher held his breath. A moment later, the Scotsman's face appeared around the corner, his brow furrowed.

"Y'might want t'take a look in here afore we go givin' 'em up."

"What?" The Texan tensed. The last thing he needed just then was another problem, something to make the Blu team think he and his teammates were going back on their word. Sighing, he trudged out of line, ignoring the sneers from the Blu team below him, and headed toward the barracks.

The door slid open, a rush of dull silver in the midday light. Conagher looked inside, spotting Billy with one foot on the Blu Soldier's throat and DeGroot beside him, holding a half-empty bottle of hooch. The thick, brownish glass glinted dully in the low light, swilling its amber contents from one end to the other.

"Sorry 'bout this," DeGroot said with a sad smile.

Then he bludgeoned Conagher over the head.

(-)

"Just a sec, folks, we're getting' 'em ready for yeh." DeGroot was all smiles as he strolled out of the barracks, sidling next to Niklas and giving the doctor a pointed, one-eyed look.

That look was all Niklas needed. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, carefully making sure the rest of the Red team was watching him squirm. Below them, the Blu team's expressions went from annoyed impatience to outright hostility.

"If this here is some kinda setup-" The Blu Engineer began.

But he never got a chance to finish.

Niklas raised his arm and shrieked.

"_Jetzt_!"

As one, the Red team leaped off the catwalk, pulling syringes and blades out of folds of their clothing, screaming and snarling and – in Doe's case – making a strangled yodeling-type noise as they came at their opponents in a single wave.

Antoine barely had time to duck before Ivan, in what was more of a belly flop than a coordinated attack, hit the Blu Heavy head-first in the gut. Ivan's Blu counterpart let out a gasp, then a groan as he sank forward, winded.

"This is good game!" Ivan cackled, sweeping Antoine out of harm's way with one enormous arm. "Is little Sneaky Antoine okay?"

"Better now." Antoine ducked again as the Blu Demoman sent a volley of grenades toward Ivan's face. They missed, but scattered around the enormous man's feet, leaving snakelike trails in the overturned dust. "Where do you need me?"

"You talk to doctor, yes? He tell you what to do!" The grin on Ivan's face turned murderous, and he kicked the closest of the Blu Demoman's grenades back toward the other team, sending them scrambling for cover. As the dust cleared, Ivan appeared, bruised and scuffed but still laughing like a madman.

"Antoine should hurry, keep away from bullets. Not strong like bear, like Ivan."

Antoine didn't need to be told twice. He scurried away, doing his best to steer clear of the grappling mercenaries. Lawrence nearly beheaded him with a swing of his kukri, and barely had time to shout an apology before Antoine tripped over the doctor's dust-covered boots.

"Ah, good." With businesslike precision, Niklas drove a syringe into the Blu Sniper's neck, sending the man to the ground, screeching and screaming and clawing at the needle with both hands. "You made it. I'd hoped zat part of ze plan vould have gone zis vay."

Antoine barely had time to realize he'd been written off as disposable in the grand scheme of things, as far as Niklas was concerned. He twisted around, planting a foot in the path of the Blu Scout and sending him careening to the ground. DeGroot seized the opportunity and shot a series of sticky bombs around the Blu runner.

"Thank you." Niklas eyed the Blu Scout with distaste as DeGroot detonated the bombs, sending limbs flying in every direction. "I assume your respawn capability is-"

"They got me, if that's what you're asking." Antoine irritably straightened his collar. "I'm good as dead out here."

"Zen I suggest you relieve Herr Walsch of his guard in ze barracks." Niklas's cool eyes met Antoine's. "Ve need as many bodies as ve can get, out here, vat viz Conagher, ah, out of commission, and Fischer novhere to be found."

"Right." Distantly, Antoine wondered where Fischer _had_ gotten off to. Usually the redhead came charging in, guns blazing – literally – any time there was even a hint of a fight.

He hurried up the steps and into the barracks. Inside, he found Billy taking great pleasure in popping each of the helpless Blu Soldier's fingers.

"My brothers used to do this to me," Billy snickered, cracking the man's middle knuckle and making him flinch. "If I can't be out there bustin' heads, I think I might as well have some fun in here."

Antoine frowned, both at Billy and the crumpled form of Conagher, whose head oozed a thin trickle of blood onto the filthy tile. "Er."

Billy jumped, standing like a child caught stealing candy. "Oh hey, they got you back!"

"Yes." Antoine strolled across the floor, dress shoes letting out a soft squeak with each step. "The doctor wants you out there with the rest of them."

"Hell yeah!" Sprinting past Antoine, Billy made it to the front of the room in the blink of an eye. He paused for a second before darting out the door. "They still got Frenchie tied up out there?"

Antoine frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"The Blu Spy. They took him out there, y'know, for leverage."

Something – suspicion, worry, foreboding – tugged at the back of Antoine's mind. "Conagher never brought the Blu Spy onto the floor. Not that I saw, at least."

But Billy was already gone.

(-)

Fischer slogged through the sewers, kicking water in every direction – including straight up, where it fell back down inside his boots. Cursing, he pulled one foot up and dumped as much of the water as he could back onto the ground.

Ridiculous, that's what it was, for Conagher to think both teams could make it out in one piece. Hadn't Conagher himself told Fischer that this was going to be the one big endgame, when they pulled him away from his cushy lifestyle as an advice columnist? Not a tea party, not the same game of make believe they'd played before.

An explosion echoed through the tunnel, throwing sound in a million directions and making Fischer jerk in surprise. Frowning, he looked toward the tunnel's entrance, but beyond the stairs that led to the Red fort's ground level, he couldn't see a thing.

The flamethrower bounced at his hip, and his breath, held inside by the gas mask, was loud in his ears.

Fischer sighed. Like it or not, he was stuck with the rest of his team. Which meant helping them when they needed it, no matter how stupid he thought the circumstances were.

Splashing back through the sewer tunnel, Fischer trotted to the steps and took them carefully, one at a time. He could barely see through the gas mask lenses, but years of constant battle had taught him the signs. The soft, pervasive smell of sulfur drifting through the air, a haze that meant recent smoke, the background din of too many screams to count.

Breath hitching, Fischer quickened his steps. A new explosion rattled the ground beneath him, bringing with it a new cacophony of shouting.

The end of Fischer's flamethrower ignited, and he could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

And when he rounded the corner, he set the entire courtyard ablaze.

(-)

Fischer came in like a wraith, a swath of fire and flashes of red and black.

The entire courtyard burned, and the smell of singed hair and burned flesh hung in the air like a shroud. Coughing, Ivan raised his enormous head, sending ash and soot scattering in a miniature whirlwind pattern.

"What was that?"

"A game changer, mate." Lawrence hacked up a wad of ash and phlegm. Then, to Fischer, who leaned against the chain link and breathed in huge, racking gasps, "Bloody hell'd you do that for?"

The gas mask lenses glinted in the light. "Looked to me like you guys needed help."

"I must say, your arrival vas… convenient." One eyebrow raised, Niklas nudged at the Blu Sniper at his feet. The man still breathed, but every inch of his skin was red and raw, and he breathed in low, slow moans. "And how did you keep from killing any of zem?"

"It was a piece of cake. I know my fire, how much means pain and how much means a trip through the respawn system. We aren't in the murderin' business though, right?" Behind the gas mask, Fischer frowned. "Thought Conagher made that pretty clear."

"Conagher did not oversee zis." Niklas's voice was carefully even.

"He didn't? Thought he was calling the shots."

"No." The Texan's voice rang out through the courtyard like a bell. "He didn't have any idea what the rest of his teammates were planning. And frankly, he didn't appreciate being knocked on the head."

DeGroot had the sense to look ashamed, but Conagher ignored him. Instead, he stormed down the catwalk stairs until he was inches from Niklas. The Texan jammed a trembling finger beneath Niklas's chin.

"Thought you and me were on the same page here, doc."

Niklas straightened. "Your vay of doing sings… ve need results. Ze ozzers agreed."

"Right. I'm the only one with a _conscience_-"

"Thank God," Doe muttered. "I hate crickets."

"_Shut up, _Doe." Conagher whirled back toward the doctor. "The only one with a conscience, so you knock me out and do things your way? I never wanted to head this little expedition – I did it because you folks seemed like you expected it outta me." He threw his hands in the air. "Well guess what. I'm done. Kill 'em all, if that's what you think ought to happen."

"Herr Conagher-"

"No," he spat. "Don't you 'Herr Conagher' me. You folks've made it _abundantly_ clear the way you want to do things. Hell, I've done plenty I didn't agree with-" Here he shot a look at Antoine, who stood expressionless at the top of the stairs. "-all for the big picture. Greater good. And I. Am. Finished."

At that, he flung his hard hat on the ground, sending it rolling to Fischer's feet. For several long seconds, no one spoke, the only sound the pained breathing of the now-immobilized Blu team.

Finally, Niklas took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was as conciliatory as he could make it. "Zey are not dead, Herr Conagher. Ze entire plan was to catch zem off guard, dispatch zem so ve vould hold all ze cards." He gestured at the lumps that were the Blu team. "And sanks to Herr Fischer's timely arrival, ve succeeded."

As if to demonstrate his point, Niklas drew a syringe out of a pocket and walked to the Blu Heavy, who, thanks to quick knot-work by DeGroot, lay flat on his stomach, arms tied behind his back and legs fastened together. With businesslike precision, Niklas knelt, sank the syringe into the Blu Heavy's neck, and stood, ignoring the way the enormous man at his feet jerked and heaved.

Disgust jerked at the edges of Conagher's mouth. "And that plan needed me unconscious on the floor why?"

"'cause we didn't think you'd be up to it, mate." Lawrence's legs dangled off the catwalk. He rubbed at the singed remains of his right sideburn and avoided looking at Fischer. "We know how much you hate stickin' us in harm's way."

"Y'all can call it whatever you want. Heroism. Doing what had to be done. But I thought y'all were better than that. I can't abide men who go back on their word." Turning and heading back to the stairs, he scooped his hat up and shrugged. "Like I said. Do whatever you want with 'em. Kill 'em, for all I care. But I'm done."

The voice that came next barked out, loud and crisp and businesslike, and it stopped the men in their tracks.

"The killing ends now, I'm afraid."

As one, the men turned to look at the entrance to the hay room, where a thin, angled figure put its hands on its hips. They knew that voice, had heard it every single day calling out orders on the battlefield.

"What're you doing here?" Doe was the first to speak. "This is no place for a woman."

Helen eyed the men below her with careful disdain. "I think you'll find this _is_ a place for me. My place, in fact. Men." Her gaze swept over the Red mercenaries scattered through the courtyard. "You have succeeded. The third heir can now take rightful control of Teufort." The snakelike smile she gave them didn't reach her eyes. "It's all mine now."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> See you all in two weeks.


	40. Chapter 40

No one spoke.

The Red mercenaries stared at each other, communicating confusion with raised eyebrows and wide-eyed glances. Even Conagher, who a moment before had been ready to grab his bag and put Teufort behind him, stood frozen on the steps, halfway between Helen and the huddled Blu masses mixed among his teammates.

Helen looked up, her thin smile widening as her eyes met with one of the cameras mounted along the chain-link fence. For years, she'd watched the two teams war against each other, brief flashes of carnage along a wall of screens, flickering almost too fast for her to follow.

And she knew that now, too, the Mann brothers would be watching. From wheelchairs and machines that pumped and whirred and heaved, but they'd be watching all the same.

She chuckled. They could watch all they wanted. Without their mercenaries, those two were helpless, walking corpses who thought themselves still relevant.

But that would change. It all would change.

She crossed the catwalk, an angular shadow in the early afternoon light. She wanted to wrinkle her nose, grimace at the thin sheen of dust that covered every inch of the fort – and covered her, too, if she stood still for longer than a few minutes. Instead, she turned, looking down on the men below her.

"Blu team," she said. "Your respawn technology has been overridden by the Red Engineer's serum. To stay and continue to fight is suicide. Do you surrender?"

The charred, whimpering remnants of the Blu team did their best to answer, whether it was a whispered affirmative or a vehement, pained nod. That seemed to placate Helen, who snapped her head toward the hay room.

"Pauling!" She barked.

Instantly, Miss Pauling skittered around the corner, a stack of manila envelopes in her arms. She hurried toward Helen, carefully avoiding the age-warped sags studded along the catwalk.

"Red team," she said, and nine pairs of eyes snapped to her. "I have here your contracts – they all indicate your cleared status – and your pay."

Finally, Conagher found his voice.

"'scuse me, ma'am, but… how do you reckon you'll get control over Teufort, now that the Blu team's, er, been taken care of?" He turned the hard hat over in his hands. "Ain't that the third heir business you brought us here for in the first place?"

"Correct, Mister Conagher." Another venomous smile. "You're looking at the third heir."

Niklas frowned. "But how-"

Helen's narrowed eyes forced the doctor into silence. "Zephaniah Mann believed girl children were weak. Inferior. Even when the daughter came from the woman who had served him, worked alongside him, for decades."

"Elizabeth?" Conagher asked.

Helen's mouth went thin at the name. "Zephaniah ordered it hushed up. With Bette expecting triplets, and already unwell… Elizabeth was put on paid leave until she delivered."

Miss Pauling started to speak, but Helen waved the words away with a hand. "I grew up in the halls of the administration building. Watching your predecessors blow each other to bits. Watching my mother struggle to raise me on her own, watching my own father favor his three legitimate sons."

Her knuckles went white. She looked up, speaking directly into the camera now. Let the bastards watch – it was high time the Mann brothers heard the truth as well. "It was too easy, slipping into the Administrator's role after I'd watched my mother do it for years. But it gave me a chance, too, to reclaim what is rightfully mine. For years, I've waited for one of the Mann brothers to misstep. Blutarch Mann's ridiculous death scheme was my opening. And now his mercenaries are powerless, his brother's mercenaries harbor no loyalty toward either Mann, and the third brother is nowhere to be found. It is all. Mine."

The haunted look left her eyes, replaced with the cruel, businesslike precision the Red mercenaries were so used to seeing. "Pauling. Distribute the contracts."

"Yes, ma'am." Hopping down the steps in black flats, Pauling thumbed through the contracts and began distributing them among the Reds. Another stack, held together by a rubber band, was pressed against her stomach. Conagher assumed those belonged to the Blu team.

"So… so it's really over?" Billy crouched on the platform below the straights' entrance, baseball bat resting against one knee. "We can go home?"

For Billy, going home meant finding Annie, begging and pleading for her to take him back. Hoping he could salvage his attempt at a normal life.

"Yes." Pauling gave Billy an encouraging smile. "It's over."

(-)

An hour later, and Conagher didn't think the words had quite sunk in. He and the other eight mercenaries were scattered through the barracks, loading suitcases and filling duffle bags with the few things they'd brought for their second foray into Teufort. For Conagher, that meant disassembling his new sentry, ignoring the stab of pain at the thought that, aside from a few skirmishes, the battles had stayed outside their fort's walls and he hadn't been able to test its limits.

He watched, silent, as Fischer pulled the rubber mask off his face and took a deep breath. The redhead had slipped back into the guise of a masked madman easier than Conagher had expected. Terrifyingly easy, in fact, and if things hadn't wrapped up the way they did Conagher had a feeling his arguments with Fischer would have escalated to more than just words.

But by the sound of it, Conagher – and the rest of the team – owed the redhead their lives.

"So what now?" Lawrence knelt by his bunk, pulling a spare pair of boots out from under it. "Call me a sap, but I'd rather not go around pretendin' like we don't know each other. I don't think it was ideal, the way it was before."

"Speak for yourself," Billy muttered. "You douchebags killed the man that mighta been my father in law."

No one replied. Fischer crossed the room, mask in one hand and bandolier-flares in the other. He'd never admit it out loud, but he felt naked, exposed now that he wore a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Something about keeping every inch of skin covered, hiding behind tinted lenses and the muffle of an air filter just felt right to him. Safe.

At least, he supposed, he'd go back to being an anonymous face, hiding behind the Miss Middy moniker, invisible to the world but still making his mark on it.

The train left at dusk, Helen had said, and the men didn't need to bother with hidden passages or secret entrances this time. They'd walk out the front, tramp over the toppled chain link, past the holding facility where the Blu team was stretched across hospital beds and scheduled for physical – and mental, Conagher assumed – treatment.

"I can't speak for the others, but I reckon I'd like to stay in touch, too," Conagher said finally. The sigh that followed the words rattled the cobwebs in the corners. "Birdhouses 'n toolboxes 'n such – I didn't mind helpin' kids build 'em, but I always felt like something was missing."

Lawrence nodded. "I appreciate it, mate."

Before the mercenaries knew it, the sun hung low in the sky, blood red and cut through by wispy pink and purple clouds. Even at sunset, heat radiated off the ground in waves.

A rock crumbled beneath Niklas's boot. The doctor had said little since the fight's end. Instead, he'd clutched the manila envelope to his side, letting his teammates do the talking and keeping his own thoughts to himself.

And just then, Niklas didn't know what to say. Or think. Or do once he got back to the cold, damp concrete and jagged-tooth skyline of the city he'd called home during their two year interim. The bills stuffed in the envelope would give him a year's cushion – an apartment, maybe some second-hand furniture, a chance to, once again, start over.

They'd made him leave the medi-gun, along with any traces of research he'd done while at Teufort. But the medi-pen rested snugly inside the inner pocket of his jacket, rubbing against his ribs with each step.

After all, he reasoned. He'd built the thing on his own, in the first six months after leaving Teufort. Technically that made the device his, and his alone.

Maybe even, he thought with a twitch of a smirk, get back into the transplant business.

The holding facility was little more than a two-story metal shed, bouncing dusky rays of light off its sides and surrounded by enough razor wire to deter even the most determined of escapees. As the Red mercenaries passed, Conagher couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity. It would've been easy – too easy – to be in their position, blindly following orders without question, trapped inside four walls for so long they'd forgotten what it was like to be outside the fences, away from the choking dust and grit of gravel in the wind.

They reached the station faster than Conagher had anticipated. They filed up the platform one by one, dropping bags and squeezing onto the two splintery benches situated on the far side.

And there, they waited.

The train began as a speck on the horizon, almost lost in the dying sunlight. It grew larger, accompanied by a multi-toned whistle that cut through the silence and made more than one of the mercenaries jump.

Then, what felt like a heartbeat later, it was there.

Conagher and Lawrence lingered on the platform, letting the others trudge on board with grumbles and the occasional snap at a teammate to watch where they stepped. This far away, Teufort was almost invisible on the horizon, two jutting sentinels that might have been a trick of the light, or a pair of plateaus.

"Reckon we'll ever see it again?"

Lawrence scoffed. "God, I hope not."

(-)

Helen lit a cigarette, bringing it to her lips and taking a long, relieved draw. The swivel chair squeaked beneath her, a plaintive squeal that, after all these years, felt familiar and reassuring.

What wasn't familiar or reassuring was the look on Pauling's face. She hovered in the doorway, bathed in grainy white light from the now-snowy screens that lined the wall.

"Do you- do you think Raymond and Blutarch-" she began, but Helen silenced her with a look.

"Of course they know," Helen said, watching the end of the cigarette leave a glowing trail in front of her. "They might be imbeciles, but they're businessmen too."

"What do you think they'll do?"

Helen's smile, glowing orange in the ember's light, was the only answer Pauling's question got. "Pauling, I believe this calls for coffee. Would you be a dear and fetch it?"

A war of emotions – confusion, worry, maybe even a little suspicion – flitted across Pauling's face. Finally, she dropped her clipboard on Helen's desk, gave a nervous nod, and disappeared through the doorway.

Helen swung around and looked up at the screen. With Teufort finally in her control – _real_ control, not the mockery of a grasp she'd had on it while the Mann brothers' mercenaries aped around on it – the possibilities were endless. All the money was in oil those days, she'd heard. Or she could just sell the real estate alone and have enough to send herself – and Pauling too, she supposed – to early retirement.

When she turned back around, the Mann brothers were there.

If Helen was surprised, she didn't show it. Instead, she took another draw off her cigarette and blew the smoke into the air.

"You two look terrible," she observed.

And they did. They each held IV towers with a kaleidoscope of colored bags, and their bony chests heaved beneath expensive dress shirts.

"You-" Blutarch began.

"Sit down." Helen jerked a hand at the chairs on the other side of her desk. "You two look like you're at death's door. I'm surprised you made it here on your own."

But the brothers stayed standing, kept upright by their fury – and in Redmond's case, a steel spine insert that wasn't quite as bendy as it used to be.

"You're a dead woman," Blutarch hissed. "Especially if you think we're handing control of Teufort over to you."

"I've had control of Teufort for years," Helen said coldly. "And your mercenaries are gone. A third-party crew is looking after your Blu team now, but they'll be sent on their way once they're cleared."

"You can't do this!" Redmond pounded a knobbly hand against the desk. It barely made a muffled thump when it hit. "This is our land! Ours! Father willed it to us, and you won't be the one who takes it from us!"

"I already have." Slowly, Helen crossed her legs. "Your accounts are frozen. There will be no more mercenaries. No more fighting. And I'm willing to pay you two, enough to stay comfortable for however much longer you decide to cling to life. All you have to do is walk away."

Blutarch leaned closer, until Helen could smell his rotten teeth and the cloying scent of age, and time, and decay. When he spoke, droplets of spit hit the top of the desk.

"Never."

Helen sighed and carefully patted her hair back into place. "You called me a dead woman, yes, Blutarch?" A pause, then, "I'll believe you'll find the situation is reversed."

Her eyes trailed to the doorway. When the brothers turned, they saw a slim silhouette, arms outstretched and a steel glint at each end.

"Goodbye, brothers." The smile widened. "Perhaps the afterlife will suit you."

Pauling cringed.

Two gunshots.

Then silence.

**Author's note: **It's difficult, I think, to tread the line between canon and the way I twisted this particular story to fit what I needed. So, for all intents and purposes, Gray Mann exists, but he hasn't made his move on Mann Co. yet.

We'll wrap things up next week. I have an epilogue planned that will span a couple chapters (the lighthearted stuff we got at the beginning of the story), so with any luck TLH will be completely done by shortly after the new year. There will be a longer, kind of reminiscing post that'll go on my Tumblr – a breakdown of the story, some of my thoughts, that sort of thing. It won't be posted until the very end, and I'll leave a link then.

And one more thing – fun news. If any of you are into time travel stories, there's a new anthology called Doorways to Extra Time that will be published sometime next fall by Spencer Hill Press. One of my short stories (operating under the tentative title "Reunion") will be included in the anthology.


	41. Chapter 41

Conagher dropped the phone back on its receiver and pressed a hand to his forehead, scratching at the thin stubble of his hairline. He shouldn't have been surprised, to find the superintendent where he'd taught had laughed outright, when Conagher had called.

"You leave without warning," he'd said, voice mean and thin and mocking, "and six weeks later you have the gall to call me asking for your job back?"

The Texan stared at the phone like he expected it to give him all the answers. He'd known it was a long shot, hours before he'd dialed the superintendent's number. Money wasn't an issue – the paycheck Helen had given him was enough to last him six months, if not more.

With the stride of a man who'd done too much, too fast, he crept over to his threadbare recliner and dropped into it.

A week he'd been back, and he already felt the itch. The sentry model sat, beeping, in the far corner of the apartment's living room, twitching back and forth as it scanned for enemies that wouldn't come. And unless Conagher's eyes were playing tricks on him, he'd already worn a path – eight paces to the window, then eight more back to the wall – from one end of the room to the other. Even with a television that he kept on day and night, Conagher was bored. Restless, ever since he'd begged his old landlord for his apartment back. Ever since the landlord had grudgingly accepted, and allowed Conagher to haul his stuff back from the grubby little storage building and up the steps to his old home.

The television screen became a shower of snow that shuddered into focus. Some child's program he had no interest in.

He didn't want to admit it – hell, he had no one to admit it _to_ – but he was lonely.

He'd tried, in the last week, to leave the others alone. More than once he'd caught himself with the phone in hand, getting ready to dial a number he didn't know. Far as he knew, the numbers he did have – the motocross track, the bakery where Ivan had worked, the phonebook ad listing Lawrence's business – weren't reliable.

Conagher scoffed. Shot a glare at the phone.

And then it rang.

He jumped, nearly upending the recliner. Hurrying across the room, he scooped the phone up. Maybe the superintendent had changed his mind. Hell, even sweeping the floors was better than sitting in his chair feeling the seconds, minutes, hours tick away.

He held the phone to his ear. "Sir-"

"Conagher. Good. I'd hoped the old number'd work."

"…Mundy?" Of all the people he'd expected to hear from the receiver, Lawrence was at least fourth or fifth on the list.

"Yeah. Listen." Traffic screeched by on the other end of the line. Conagher frowned. Was Lawrence at a pay phone? "It's about Fischer."

Fischer. Just the name sent Conagher's mood plummeting The last thing he wanted to think about was all the drama, all the stress associated with the former Red team's Pyro.

"What about Fischer?"_Steady_, he thought. _Keep your voice level._

On the other end of the line, Lawrence paused. A squeal of locked-up brakes, a horn, a shout.

"He's dead."

The Texan's grip went so tight that the phone shot out of his hands. Scrambling for the receiver, he was aware of a sharp thudding in his chest. Surely he'd heard wrong, or this was Lawrence's idea of a sick joke.

He stood up and pressed the phone against his ear. "What?"

"I said 'e's dead." Lawrence sounded detached, as usual. Much to Conagher's frustration.

"You're joking." _Let him be joking_. "You have to be."

"Nah, mate." Another pause, but this one was heavier. "Can I come over?"

(-)

Lawrence was a welcome sight in the grubby apartment, a lean slash of denim and mirrored aviators. He leaned against the counters, both hands gripped around the cheap Formica lip. Across from him, Conagher clutched a beer – a slightly more expensive brand than he'd indulged in before their second trip to Teufort, but still the cheap bottom-shelf crap he tended to favor – like he expected it to give him all the answers.

"They're callin' it a suicide," Lawrence said. "Bloody bollocks, I say, but there's no arguin' with the suits."

"What happened? How'd you hear about it?"

"Pauling."

Conagher raised an eyebrow, but Lawrence ignored him. The Texan didn't need to know about the thin white knuckles pounding on the driver's side window of his van. The shadow of Pauling, hurrying through the details of what they'd found at Fischer's estate. The look in her eyes when she told him about the one Blu mercenary who had escaped.

"As for what happened." Lawrence blew out a breath. "Seems to me like the details explain themselves. They found 'im in the back yard. Knife in 'is throat."

The beer suddenly tasted like bile. Conagher coughed. "Y'mean-"

"Yeah. Pauling said one of the Blu buggers got loose." The mirrored glasses gave nothing away, but it didn't take a mind reader for Conagher to guess which one of the Blus Lawrence meant.

"D'you reckon-" Conagher set the beer on the counter. "Y'think he's comin' after us, too?"

"I dunno. Pauling wasn't sure, either. Just told me to pass the message onto the rest of the team, to watch our backs." The counter creaked. "Funeral'll be Tuesday."

"And you told everyone else, then?"

"Yeah, all the ones I could get in touch with." Lawrence shrugged. "Pauling gave me the contact info."

"_You tracked them down before," she'd said as she pressed the manilla envelope into Lawrence's hands. "You'll do it again."_

The Australian cleared his throat. "Just 'cause we're officially cleared don't mean they stopped watching us. Couple of 'em, though – the Runner, Doe – I couldn't find 'em. Not sure where they took off to, but the addresses Pauling gave me, and the numbers, they didn't pan out."

Antoine hadn't replied, either, though Lawrence had called on three different pay phones. Each time, the Australian had heard someone pick up the phone, listen just long enough for Lawrence to say who was calling, and then hang it up again. And despite the signs of life surrounding the mansion – expensive cars with dark-tinted windows coming and going at all hours of the day and night, a tall, annoyed-looking man in a business suit who checked the mail every day, the distinct sound of voices coming from the backyard – Lawrence hadn't been able to get anyone there to talk to him.

Just as well, Lawrence had thought at the time. Still thought. Fischer and Antoine were oil and water, and the Australian doubted Antoine had any desire to mourn for the man who had overturned his life so completely.

It was Conagher's turn to sigh. "Guess I'll need to buy a suit."

"Yeah, me too."

Silence, then- "Y'mind if I crash on yer couch tonight?"

"Not a bit."

(-)

The curtains blocked most of the moonlight, but Conagher could still make out the shape of the person who stood at the end of his bed. Tall, thin, in a suit dark as the night outside, haunted eyes.

The Texan spun, latching onto the drawer to his bedside table. He yanked the drawer open, felt the cold handle of his pistol.

"Don't."

There was a glint, then. The long barrel of a revolver, pointed directly at Conagher's head. Slowly, Conagher dropped the gun, pulling his hand out of the drawer with deliberate caution. He didn't want to think about Lawrence, stretched out on the Texan's couch in the adjacent room. Had the Blu Spy finished Lawrence off before heading on to Conagher? A terrible thought – the blade of a butterfly knife, silent as it sliced across Lawrence's throat – flashed through his mind, but he pushed it down.

Right then, all that mattered was keeping himself alive.

"What do you want?"

"From you? Nothing." The Blu Spy kept the gun leveled between Conagher's eyes.

"Then why're you here?" Conagher tried to think. If he threw himself at the Blu Spy's midsection, ducked below where the gun was pointed, maybe he'd have just enough time to shove the man to the ground. But he was still unarmed, and it would only take one good shot.

And he knew just how good the Blu Spy's aim could be.

"To deliver a message."

"Then deliver it, and get the hell out of my house."

To Conagher's relief, the Blu Spy lowered the gun, pointing it instead at the stained mattress with its mismatched plaid sheets.

"I'd be lying if I said I bore your team no ill will," he said, still resting a finger on the trigger. "But I am no fool, and I am satisfied that the... shall I say, _source_ of the majority of my grudge is eliminated."

"Then you did kill Fischer." Anger bubbled up until Conagher thought he'd choke on it. "You broke out- came after him-"

"I did. And, as I'm sure you have heard, I came out the winner, in the end." The ghost of a smile crossed the Blu Spy's face. "And that, for me, is enough. So I am here to tell you that, so long as you let me be, I have zero interest in making an example of the rest of the Red team. I'm willing to live and let live, given none of you seek me out."

"Why the hell would we come lookin' for you?"

"Because I know you." Smirking, the Blu Spy gingerly tapped the barrel of the gun against his own head. "As I said, I am no fool, and there's more to a masquerade than dressing the part. You may not have considered your Pyro a friend, but you consider yourself an honorable man, and a part of you feels responsible for his death."

Conagher scowled at the man sitting on the end of his bed. "And if we track you down?"

The words were matter of fact. "I will kill each and every one of you."

The bedroom window glowed white as a car passed along the road below. The Blu Spy watched it fade to gray, then black, his face expressionless.

"It was a fair fight, if that's your concern" he said, still looking at the window. "He was armed. One of those makeshift flamethrowers he'd pieced together out there."

To Conagher's surprise, that _did_ make him feel better. But it didn't make him feel any more hospitable to the man in his room. "If all you're here for is speakin' yer piece, then I reckon you've done it. Now get out."

The bed springs groaned as the Blu Spy stood. "I'll repeat myself once. If you leave me be, I will return the favor. I'll show myself out."

By the time Conagher made it out of bed and to the door of his apartment, the Blu Spy was nowhere to be seen. Looking back, the Texan could see Lawrence stretched out on the couch, one socked foot poking out from beneath a threadbare plaid blanket he'd scavenged from Conagher's closet.

Conagher opened the door, blinking in the yellow, artificial light of the hallway outside. Briefly, he considered chasing after the Blu Spy, demanding a chance to avenge Fischer.

He heaved a sigh. Closed the door.

Avenging Fischer – if he even decided to do it at all – could wait.

For then, Conagher was tired of fighting.

(-)

The funeral was a quiet affair, more tasteful than Conagher thought Fischer would have liked. A cluster of people, a few of whom the Texan recognized as Fischer's hired help, stood around the mahogany casket.

The cemetery itself sat on the outskirts of town, an expanse of carefully-maintained trees and grass that stayed green even in the chill from the early spring air. The gravesite was even further back, lying along one of the stone walls that separated the cemetery from the wood on three sides and the road from the other. From what Conagher could gather from Fischer's former employees, the redhead had bought the plot ages ago, during one of his melancholy spells.

Probably, Conagher thought, one of the best decisions Fischer had ever made.

Conagher shifted in his suit. The shoulder pads felt like wash rags jammed against his skin, and he still hadn't gotten used to the way the waistline pinched at his hips. Give him coveralls – hell, even jeans – any day.

The others – most of them, at least – were clustered in a loose group. Even though he'd worked at it for the better part of two days, Lawrence hadn't been able to track down Billy or Doe, and Antoine remained as elusive as ever.

DeGroot gave a calculated blink. He was back to wearing the glass eye, and his neatly-trimmed beard and tailored suit made him look like he belonged in a movie. Despite the glum atmosphere, he smiled from ear to ear.

Under other circumstances, he'd be inviting the guys out for a pint. It wasn't every day a man learned he'd been cleared of any charges, thanks to some unsightly drug- and assault-related charges from the two people he'd not-so-accidentally blown up. It also wasn't every day he signed a lease on a new tavern in the up-and-coming artsy district of town.

Ivan and Niklas were there, too, bringing the smell of freshly-baked bread with them. From what Conagher understood, the pair had decided to stay together, Ivan opening up a bakery of his own on the far end of town and Niklas using a small metal warehouse in the back for... well, for his own purposes. Conagher had a feeling 'other purposes,' in Niklas-speak, meant 'organ harvesting,' but he hadn't bothered to ask.

One by one, the other mourners – if they could be called that – wandered away, until it was just the five men and what remained of their comrade.

Lawrence jammed his hands in his pockets and stared down at the casket. "What now? D'we... just leave?"

"Reckon we'll have to, eventually."

A commotion came from the other side of the wall, momentarily distracting the men. Leaves rattled, a bird shrieked, and Doe vaulted over the stone wall, landing hard on the ground beside them.

"Not late, am I?" He dusted chunks of leaf litter off his mildewed russet tuxedo.

The five former mercenaries stared, open-mouthed, at the Red Soldier.

Lawrence was the first to speak. "Where the hell'd you come from?"

Doe pointed. "Over that wall."

"No, I mean..." Lawrence made a furious noise in the back of his throat. "I looked for you. I called in _favors_, trying to figure out where you were. And then you bloody show up out of the trees like some kind of- of- of woodland creature! How'd you even know where to come?"

"Oh, that. That was easy." Doe held up a black business card lined with silver filigree. "I'm a member of the Miss Middy Magazine platinum club. They sent these out to everyone a couple days ago."

Snarling, Lawrence snatched the card out of Doe's hand.

**We regretfully invite you**

**To a memorial service**

**Honoring Miss "Micah" Middy**

**11 a.m., March 18, Briarwood Cemetery**

Reading over Lawrence's shoulder, Conagher raised an eyebrow. "How come no one else showed up?"

"I must've been the only member." Doe shrugged. "So- it's true, then? Fischer bit the big one?"

"'Fraid so. Blu Spy did 'im in." Speaking softly, Conagher explained to Doe how the Blu Spy had showed up at his apartment, and the message the man had relayed. He'd already told the others, and he'd been mildly surprised to find out the others shared his sentiments.

Maybe they'd go after the Blu Spy someday.

But not that day.

Silence fell on the group. They glanced at each other, unsure of what to do or say next. The goodbyes they'd said on the train from Teufort still felt fresh, too recent to go through again.

There was a scraping noise like wood on metal, and Conagher's head snapped up. After a brief search, his eyes fell on the casket, where Doe was busily carving a flame insignia into the wooden lid.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Doe didn't look up from the carving. He brushed a hand across it and blew the excess bits of wood away. "I figure he'd like it. What do you think?"

Conagher couldn't help but smile. It was rough, but the flame looked like the patch sewed onto the arms of Fischer's coveralls. "I reckon you're right."

Ivan spoke up, then. A light sprinkle of flour dusted across his nose, and there was a smear of pink frosting just above his right ear. "Ivan has to go. Have pasties to bake for tomorrow."

A sigh threatened to burst out of Conagher, but he bit it back. So that was it, then. Back to reality. He forced himself to nod. "See y'all later." Then, to Lawrence, "You ridin' back with me?"

"Actually, nah, I'll catch up with you later." Lawrence looked down, shifting from foot to foot. "Got me a date tonight."

Silently, the Australian hoped the others wouldn't press him for more info. The last thing he wanted was to tell them about running into rattlesnake girl – _Dina_, he reminded himself – on the street. Laughing about ridding the house of the snakes. Making plans to meet for dinner at the diner near her house.

Lawrence coughed, cleared his throat. He didn't want the others to think he was nervous, or even worse, embarrassed, by the thought of dinner with a sheila.

But they didn't ask.

And when Ivan and Niklas turned back toward the bus stop, the other former mercenaries followed suit, solitary shadows on the long road back to rebuilding their lives.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: <strong>I've known for a long time that Fischer was going to die. It didn't happen the way I expected, but I knew it would happen. For anyone wondering, it wasn't done to make any particular person happy, or as a way of opening the story up for a sequel, or because I disliked Fischer as a character. Writing him was kind of enjoyable, actually – he was a very angry, sad, screwed-up mind to get into, but that made him interesting to work with.

There'll be a short prologue tying up one more loose end, then we're done. :)

See you all in two weeks.


	42. Chapter 42

**EPILOGUE**

Rain fell in sheets, a steady rhythm that drowned out all but the loudest cars coming up and down the street. Occasionally a tire would hit the puddle – now a miniature lake – in front of him and send water spraying in every direction. Luckily, his perch kept the worst of it away from him – the fire escape was rickety and groaned any time he moved, but at least it was dry.

He'd stood on the sidewalk for half an hour before he'd noticed the fire escape and the welcome break from water swirling around his Sunday best shoes. Now, though, his black umbrella, folded and glinting in the streetlights overhead, rocked back and forth, slowly, on the rung beside him.

He didn't take his eyes off the house across the street.

'House' was an understatement, as far as he was concerned. Growing up with a litter of siblings meant luxuries, like the wrap-around porch and rose garden that hugged the house's south wall, were unheard of.

In the last two weeks, he'd called in every favor he had left. He'd lied so many times the truth felt like a dream – nah, ma, he _hadn't_ gone back to that New Mexico hellhole, he'd landed a job at a California shipyard and worked there long enough to save up a couple grand.

That much, at least, was true. All the back-alley bribes he'd made, one tidbit of information at a time, left him with a fraction of what he'd earned back at Teufort.

He'd keep looking, though, even if it meant throwing away his last penny.

He wished the rain would stop. When he daydreamed about that day, the sky was blue and cloudless, and hell, maybe that angelic chorus could happen, too.

But no. Here he was, stuck in freakin' Hurricane Bad Luck.

A shiver of movement at the house's front door caught his eye. Instantly, he snapped out of his thoughts, focusing with hawk-like intensity and wishing, just then, he had one of Lawrence's scopes so the person opening the door wasn't just a flesh-colored blob in a black suit.

He squinted. It _was_ some guy in a black suit, but the person behind walking out the door behind him instantly caught his attention.

It was her.

The rain forgotten, he slid off the fire escape, descending the ladder so fast he nearly slid down it. He paused only for a moment, glancing up and down the road before darting across. The last thing he needed was to get creamed when he was close.

So, so close.

By the time she made it to the gate, he stood beside it, raindrops pattering against the umbrella he'd finally remembered to open. Not quite the entrance he'd hoped for, but by then he didn't care. All that mattered was seeing her again.

"Annie?"

She froze at the sound of his voice, her body rigid beneath her own umbrella. Slowly, like she barely believed she'd heard him, she turned to look.

"Billy?"

The umbrellas flew to the ground, upside down and gathering water. They flung themselves at each other, an embrace so tight it left them breathless.

"I'm so sorry, Ann." Any heroic speech or apologies he'd planned vanished from his mind. The words he said instead tumbled out desperately. "I never meant to hurt anyone, especially not your dad. That's not-"

"Dad's alright." She swallowed, burying her head in the crook beneath his chin. "I mean, not alright, but he's alive. You have so much explaining to do."

"It wasn't- I can explain- Please, let's start over."

He felt her nod, and a flood of relief washed over him.

"I'd like that."

Billy squeezed her again. He'd found her, and she didn't hate him.

And now, he was never letting her go again.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong>

Phew. It's been a trip. Apologies for taking so long between the last chapter and the epilogue, but I've been neck-deep in work things and novel editing. Also, the cheese, but I wanted Billy to have a happy ending.

Thanks to everyone who stuck with the story, whether you only signed on recently or have been following it since the early chapters. I've met some awesome people through this story – great artists, writers who make me look like a toddler with a crayon, and the world's best readers. I'll admit, this story has exhausted me, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Instead of worrying about Tumblr posts, I'm just gonna do this last bit here. It's answering a few questions I've gotten in the last couple months, and since I've been asked more than once I thought I'd just do a Q&A type thing here. A word of warning: it's long, so pass this up if you hate long author notes.

**Q:** Why did you kill Fischer?

**A: **I felt like, of all the mercs, Fischer was the one that never really re-adapted to civilian life. He was my favorite character to write, but leaving him alive meant a loose end, at least in my mind. And for those of you wondering what happens to Miss Middy Magazine, Solly takes over and readership among 18-45 year olds skyrockets.

**Q:** I hated how you did (x). Why'd you do that? It ruined the story!

**A**: I'll be the first to admit I kind of shot myself in the foot here. More than once, I had what I thought was a brilliant idea, I'd write it in, and then a few chapters later I'd realize it sucked. With a post-as-you-write story, there's no luxury of a second draft. That's why this story is about twice as long as it needs to be. I could edit it, streamline it, and make it better, but that would mean re-posting the entire thing. I'll use Fischer as an example. Originally, I intended for him to die in the last fight and go out in a blaze of glory. Then, about ten minutes after I posted the chapter, I realized, "Oh crap. My Pyro's still alive." A lot of that could have been solved with better organization and better planning, but, when you boil this story down, it was a writing exercise for me and I definitely count that as a lesson learned.

**Q:** What are you doing next? You should write about (fanfic idea here)!

**A: **As much fun as I've had, unfortunately finishing this story means I'm ducking out of fanfiction. I might write the occasional one-shot, but right now my schedule is insanely busy, and it doesn't show any signs of slowing down. If you're interested in the non-fanfic stuff I write, you can hunt down my Tumblr. I post short stories there, and I keep it fairly well updated with my paid projects. There's a fair amount of fangirling, but beneath that it's sheer, professional substance, I swear.

If you have a Goodreads account, you can add the anthology one of my stories will appear in, even though it won't be released until May. Search for "Holiday Magick" and it should pop right up.

**Q: **Will there be a Last Hurrah sequel?

**A: **I tossed the idea around while I was writing the last few chapters. I think a story about the Blu spy's interactions with the surviving Red mercs could be an interesting character study. But, like I said above, I just plain don't have time. If someone else wants to write that, they can go right ahead. :)

Thanks again, everyone. It's been an awesome experience, putting this together.

-ellem


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